ALPHONSE   DAUDET. 


•  »  • •    *       •  »« 


Copyright,  iS^^,  by  Littijf,  Brovm. 


Geupa  it  C?  FarCs 


.       '       !  • ,'  Copyright,  1S99, 

By  Ljtti-e,  Brown,  and  Company. 


A /I  rights  reserved. 


John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


FOR 

MY    SONS 

WHBN  THEY  ARE  TWENTY  YEARS  OLD. 

9 


V\c\jj\  Zay\^    iMa*"'^  U'.b 


re* 


(I- 


CONTENTS. 

Pack 

Sappho    .    ,    . ^ 

Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights: 

I.    The  Actor  at  Work 261 

II.    Madame  d'fipinay's  Dream 275 

III.  Provincial  Circuits 282 

IV.  Theatrical  Mourning 289 

V.    Stage-Setting  and  Rehearsals 298 

VI.    Drunkenness  on  the  Stage 315 

VII.    Sixty  Years  on  the  Stage 320 

VIII.    Diderot's  Advice  to  an  Actress 329 

IX.    Fanny  Kemble  after  her  Memoirs 345 


849303 


SAPPHO. 


I. 

"  Come,  look  at  me.  I  like  the  color  of  your 
eyes.     What 's  your  name  ?  " 

*'  Jean." 

*' Just  Jean?" 

"Jean  Gaussin." 

**  From  the  South,  I  can  see  that.  How  old  are 
you  ?  " 

**  Twenty-one." 

"An  artist?" 

"  No,  madame." 

"  Ah !  so  much  the  better." 

These  brief  sentences,  almost  unintelligible  amid 
the  shrieks  and  laughter  and  dance  music  of  a 
masquerade  party,  were  exchanged,  one  night  in 
June,  by  a  bagpiper  and  a  female  fellah  in  the 
conservatory  of  palms  and  tree-like  ferns  which 
formed  the  background  of  Dechelette's  studio. 

To  the  Egyptian's  searching  examination,  the 
piper  replied  with  the  ingenuousness  of  his  tender 
years,  the  recklessness  and  the  sigh  of  relief  of  a 
Southerner  who  has  been  silent  for  a  long  while. 
A  stranger  to  all  that  throng  of  painters  and  sculp- 
tors, lost  sight  of  immediately  after  his  arrival  by 


2  Sappho. 

the  friend  who  had  brought  him,  he  had  been 
sauntering"  about  for  two  hours  with  his  attractive 
fair  face  tanned  and  gilded  by  the  sun,  his  curly 
h.^iif '  close  atid  sh-ort  as  the  sheepskin  costume  he 
wore ;  and  a  triumph,  which  he  was  far  from  sus- 
pecting, arose  and  whispered  around  him. 

Dancers  jostled  him  roughly  with  their  shoulders, 
studio  fags  laughed  and  jeered  at  the  bagpipe  slung 
over  his  shoulder  and  his  mountain  costume,  heavy 
and  uncomfortable  on  that  summer  night.  A  Jap- 
anese woman,  with  eyes  suggestive  of  the  faubourg, 
her  high  chignon  held  in  place  by  steel  knives, 
hummed  as  she  ogled  him :  Ah  I  qu'il  est  beaUy 
qtCil  est  beau,  le  postilion !  while  a  Spanish  novia, 
passing  on  the  arm  of  an  Apache  chief,  vio- 
lently thrust  her  bouquet  of  white  jasmine  into  his 
face. 

He  failed  to  understand  these  advances,  ima- 
gined that  he  was  cutting  an  exceedingly  absurd 
figure,  and  took  refuge  in  the  cool  shadows  of  the 
glass  gallery,  where  a  divan  was  placed  against  the 
wall  under  the  plants.  That  woman  had  come  at 
once,  and  taken  a  seat  by  his  side. 

Young,  beautiful?  He  could  not  have  told. 
From  the  long  sheath  of  blue  woollen  stuff,  in 
which  her  full  figure  swayed  with  an  undulating 
motion,  emerged  two  round  and  shapely  arms  bare 
to  the  shoulder;  and  her  little  hands  laden  with 
rings,  her  wide-open  gray  eyes  increased  in  ap- 
parent size  by  the  curious  iron  ornaments  hanging 
from  her  forehead,  formed  a  harmonious  whole. 

An    actress    without    doubt.      Many   actresses 


Sappho.  3 

came  to  Dechelette's ;  and  the  thought  was  not 
calculated  to  put  him  at  his  ease,  as  persons  of 
that  sort  had  great  terror  for  him.  She  sat  very- 
near  him,  with  her  elbow  on  her  knee,  her  head 
resting  on  her  hand,  and  spoke  with  grave  sweet- 
ness, with  a  touch  of  weariness  in  her  tone.  **  From 
the  South,  really?  And  such  light  hair!  That's 
an  extraordinary  thing." 

Then  she  wanted  to  know  how  long  he  had  lived 
in  Paris,  if  the  examination  for  admission  to  the 
diplomatic  service  that  he  was  preparing  for  was 
very  hard,  if  he  knew  many  people,  and  how  he 
came  to  be  at  that  party  at  Dechelette's  on  Rue  de 
Rome,  so  far  from  his  Latin  quarter. 

When  he  told  her  the  name  of  the  student  who 
had  brought  him  —  *' La  Gournerie,  a  relative  of 
the  author  —  no  doubt  you  know  him" — the  ex- 
pression of  the  woman's  face  changed,  suddenly 
darkened ;  but  he  did  not  notice,  being  of  the  age 
when  eyes  shine  without  seeing.  La  Gournerie 
had  promised  that  his  cousin  would  be  there,  that 
he  would  introduce  him. 

"  I  like  his  verses  so  much !  I  shall  be  so  glad 
to  know  him  !  " 

She  smiled  compassionately  at  his  Innocence, 
with  a  pretty  drawing  together  of  the  shoulders, 
'.and  at  the  same  time  put  aside  the  light  leaves  of 
a  bamboo  with  her  hand,  and  looked  into  the  ball- 
room, to  see  if  she  could  not  discover  his  great 
man. 

The  festivity  at  that  moment  was  as  animated 
and  resplendent  as  the  transformation  scene  of  a 


4  Sappho. 

fairy  spectacle.  The  studio — the  hall  rather,  for 
little  work  was  ever  done  there  —  extended  to  the 
roof,  making  one  enormous  room,  and  its  light 
and  airy  summer  draperies,  its  shades  of  fine  straw 
or  gauze,  its  lacquered  screens,  its  multi-colored 
glassware,  and  the  cluster  of  yellow  roses  which 
embellished  the  opening  of  a  high  Renaissance 
fireplace,  were  illuminated  by  the  variegated, 
bizarre  reflections  of  innumerable  Chinese,  Persian, 
Moorish,  and  Japanese  lanterns,  some  in  perforated 
iron  carved  like  the  door  of  a  mosque,  others  in 
colored  paper  shaped  like  different  fruits,  others  like 
open  fans,  flowers,  birds,  and  serpents ;  and  flashes 
of  electricity,  of  a  bluish  tinge,  would  suddenly 
pale  all  those  thousands  of  lights,  and  cast  a  frosty 
gleam,  like  a  ray  of  moonlight,  on  the  faces  and 
bare  shoulders,  on  all  the  phantasmagoria  of 
dresses,  feathers,  spangles,  and  ribbons,  jostling  one 
another  in  the  ball-room,  and  sitting  in  tiers  on 
the  Dutch  staircase,  with  its  massive  rail  leading  to 
the  galleries  on  the  first  floor,  which  were  over- 
topped by  the  long  necks  of  the  double  basses, 
and  the  frenzied  flourishes  of  the  conductor's  baton. 
From  his  seat  the  young  man  saw  it  all  through 
a  network  of  green  branches,  of  flowering  convol- 
vuli,  which  blended  with  the  decorations,  formed 
a  frame  for  them,  and  by  an  optical  illusion,  in  the 
constant  motion  of  the  dance,  threw  wreaths  of 
glycine  on  the  silver  train  of  a  princess's  gown, 
and  placed  a  head-dress  of  dracaena  leaves  above 
a  Pompadour  shepherdess's  pretty  face;  and  the 
interest  of  the  spectacle  was  doubled  now  for  him 


Sappho,  5 

by  the  pleasure  of  learning  from  his  gypsy  the 
names,  all  renowned,  all  well  known,  which  were 
concealed  beneath  those  fancy  costumes,  so  amus- 
ing in  their  variety  and  oddity. 

That  whipper-in,  with  his  short  whip  slung 
saltire-wise,  was  Jadin ;  while  that  shabby  country 
cure's  cassock  a  little  farther  on  disguised  old 
Isabey,  who  had  made  himself  taller  by  putting  a 
pack  of  cards  in  his  buckled  shoes.  Pere  Corot 
smiled  from  behind  the  huge  visor  of  an  Invalide's 
cap.  She  also  pointed  out  Thomas  Couture  as 
a  bull-dog,  Jundt  as  a  thief-catcher,  Cham  as  a 
humming-bird. 

Several  serious  historical  costumes,  a  beplumed 
Murat,  a  Prince  Eugene,  a  Charles  I.,  worn  by 
young  painters,  marked  clearly  the  difference  be- 
tween the  two  generations  of  artists;  the  latest 
comers  serious,  cold,  with  the  faces  of  members 
of  the  Bourse  prematurely  aged  by  the  charac- 
teristic wrinkles  traced  by  absorbing  financial 
preoccupation;  the  elders  much  more  boyish, 
mischievous,  noisy  and  frolicsome. 

Despite  his  fifty-five  years  and  the  palm-leaves 
of  the  Institute,  the  sculptor  Caoudal  as  a  hussar 
in  barracks,  his  bare  arms  exhibiting  his  herculean 
biceps,  a  painter's  palette  danghng  against  his 
long  legs  in  guise  of  sabre-tascJie,  was  dancing  a 
cavalier  seiil  of  the  time  of  the  Grande  Chaumiere, 
opposite  the  musician  de  Potter,  in  the  costume  of 
a  muezzin  on  a  spree,  his  turban  awry,  imitating 
the  danse  du  ventre^  and  whining  "  La  Allah,  il 
Allah  !  "  in  a  terribly  shrill  voice. 


6  Sappho. 

Those  frolicsome  celebrities  were  surrounded 
by  a  large  circle,  the  dancers  resting  meanwhile ; 
and  in  the  front  row  stood  Dechelette,  the  master 
of  the  house,  wrinkling  his  little  eyes,  his  Kal- 
muck nose,  his  grizzly  beard,  happy  in  the  gayety 
of  the  others  and  highly  entertained  without  seem- 
ing to  be. 

Dechelette,  the  engineer,  a  typical  figure  of 
artistic  Paris  ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  very  good- 
natured,  very  wealthy,  with  a  taste  for  art,  and  that 
free-and-easy  manner,  that  contempt  for  public 
opinion,  which  result  from  a  life  of  travel  and 
bachelorhood,  had  at  that  time  a  contract  for  a 
railroad  from  Tauris  to  Teheran ;  and  every  year, 
to  recuperate  after  ten  months  of  fatigue,  of  nights 
under  canvas,  of  wild  gallops  across  sandy  deserts 
and  swamps,  he  came  to  Paris  to  pass  the  very 
hot  season  in  that  house  on  Rue  de  Rome,  built 
from  his  own  plans  and  furnished  like  a  summer 
palace,  where  he  got  together  clever  men  and 
pretty  girls,  calling  upon  civilization  to  give  him 
in  a  few  weeks  the  essence  of  its  most  piquant 
and  dehcious  products. 

**  Dechelette  has  arrived."  The  news  spread 
through  the  studios  as  soon  as  the  great  linen 
shades  which  covered  the  glass  front  of  the  house 
were  seen  to  rise  like  a  stage-curtain.  That  meant 
that  the  fetes  were  about  to  begin,  and  that  they 
were  to  have  two  months  of  music  and  merry- 
making, of  dancing  and  feasting,  breaking  in  upon 
the  silent  torpor  of  Quartier  de  I'Europe  at  that 
season  of  villas  and  sea-baths. 


Sappho,  7 

Personally  D(^chelette  took  no  part  in  the  bac- 
chanalian festivities  that  woke  the  echoes  of  his 
studio  night  and  day.  That  indefatigable  rake 
brought  to  his  pleasures  a  cold-blooded  passion, 
a  glance  vague  and  smiling,  as  if  deadened  by 
hasheesh,  but  of  imperturbable  calmness  and  lu- 
cidity. An  exceedingly  loyal  friend,  giving  boun- 
tifully without  counting,  he  entertained  for  women 
the  contempt  of  an  Oriental,  compounded  of  in- 
dulgence and  courtesy ;  and  of  those  who  came 
there,  attracted  by  his  great  wealth  and  the  joyous 
eccentricity  of  the  festivities,  not  one  could  boast 
of  having  been  his  mistress  more  than  one  day. 

"  A  good  fellow,  all  the  same,"  added  the  gypsy, 
who  gave  Gaussin  this  information.  Suddenly  she 
interrupted  herself,  — 

"  There  's  your  poet." 

''Where?" 

"  In  front  of  you,  dressed  as  a  village  bride- 
groom." 

The  young  man  uttered  an  ''  Oh ! "  of  disap- 
pointment. His  poet!  That  fat,  shiny,  perspir- 
ing man,  performing  awkward  antics  in  the  false 
collar  with  two  points  and  the  flowered  waistcoat 
of  Jeannot.  The  despairing,  piercing  shrieks  of 
the  Livre  de  l Amour  came  to  his  mind,  the  book 
that  he  never  read  without  a  quickening  of  the 
pulse;  and  instinctively  he  murmured  aloud, — 

"  Pour  animer  le  marbre  orgueilleux  de  ton  corps, 
O  Sapho,  j'ai  donnd  tout  le  sang  de  mes  veines."i 

*  To  give  life  to  the  haughty  marble  of  thy  body, 
O  Sappho,  I  have  given  all  the  best  blood  in  my  veins. 


8  Sappho. 

She  turned  quickly,  jangling  her  barbarian  or- 
naments. 

**  What's  that  you  say?" 

They  were  lines  written  by  La  Gournerie;  he 
was  surprised  that  she  did  not  know  them. 

"I  don't  like  poetry,"  she  said  shortly;  and  she 
remained  standing,  with  a  frown  on  her  face,  watch- 
ing the  dancing  and  nervously  toying  with  the 
beautiful  lilac  clusters  hanging  before  her.  Then, 
with  an  effort,  as  if  forcing  herself  to  a  painful  deci- 
sion, she  said  "  Good-night,"  and  disappeared. 

The  poor  piper  was  dumfounded.  "  What  *s  the 
matter  with  her?  What  did  I  say  to  her?"  He 
cudgelled  his  brains,  but  could  think  of  nothing, 
except  that  he  would  do  well  to  go  to  bed.  He 
picked  up  his  bagpipes  with  a  melancholy  air,  and 
returned  to  the  ball-room,  less  annoyed  by  the 
gypsy's  departure  than  by  the  thought  that  he 
must  pass  through  all  that  crowd  to  reach  the 
door. 

The  consciousness  of  his  own  obscurity  among 
so  many  celebrities  made  him  still  more  timid. 
They  were  no  longer  dancing,  except  a  few  couples 
here  and  there  clinging  desperately  to  the  last 
strains  of  a  dying  waltz;  among  them  Caoudal, 
superb  and  gigantic,  with  head  erect,  whirling 
around  with  a  little  knitting-woman  in  his  red 
arms,  her  hair  flying  in  the  wind. 

Through  the  great  window  at  the  rear,  which 
was  wide  open,  entered  puffs  of  early  morning  air 
with  the  white  light  of  dawn,  rustling  the  leaves  of 
the  palms,  prostrating  the  flames  of  the  candles  as 


Sappho,  9 

if  to  extinguish  them.  A  paper  lantern  took  fire, 
bobeches  burst,  and  all  around  the  room  the  ser- 
vants were  arranging  small  round  tables  as  on  the 
terraces  of  cafes.  At  Dechelette's  the  guests  al- 
ways supped  thus,  by  fours  and  fives ;  and  at  that 
moment  congenial  spirits  were  seeking  one  another 
and  forming  groups. 

There  were  shouts  and  fierce  calls,  the  ^^  Pil- 
ouit"  of  the  faubourgs  answering  the  "  Yoii  you 
you  you!^  in  imitation  of  a  rattle,  of  the  girls  of 
the  Orient;  and  conversations  in  undertones  and 
the  voluptuous  laughter  of  women  led  away  with  a 
caress. 

Gaussin  was  availing  himself  of  the  confusion 
to  glide  toward  the  outer  door,  when  his  student- 
friend,  dripping  with  perspiration,  his  eyes  like 
saucers,  a  bottle  under  each  arm,  stopped  him: 
"Why,  where  in  the  deuce  were  you?  I've  been 
looking  for  you  everywhere.  I  have  a  table  and 
some  girls,  little  Bachellery  from  the  Bouffes  — 
dressed  as  a  Japanese,  you  know.  She  sent  me  to 
find  you.     Come  quick  !  "  and  he  ran  off. 

The  piper  was  thirsty ;  then  the  wild  excitement 
of  the  ball  tempted  him,  and  the  pretty  face  of  the 
little  actress,  who  was  making  signs  to  him  in  the 
distance.  But  a  sweet  grave  voice  murmured  close 
to  his  ear,  — 

"  Don't  go  there." 

The  woman  who  had  just  been  sitting  by  him 
was  close  beside  him  now,  leading  him  away;  and 
he  followed  her  unhesitatingly.  Why?  It  was  not 
because  of  her  personal  attraction ;  he  had  scarcely 


lo  Sappho, 

glanced  at  her,  and  the  other  over  yonder,  who 
was  calling  him,  adjusting  the  steel  knives  in  her 
hair,  pleased  him  much  more.  But  he  obeyed  a 
will  superior  to  his  own,  the  headstrong  violence 
of  a  desire. 

"  Do  not  go  there." 

Suddenly  they  both  found  themselves  on  the 
sidewalk  on  Rue  de  Rome.  Cabs  were  waiting  in 
the  pale  morning  light.  Street-sweepers,  mechan- 
ics going  to  their  work,  glanced  at  that  uproarious 
revel,  overflowing  into  the  street,  that  couple  in 
fancy  dress,  a  Mardi  Gras  in  midsummer. 

"To  your  house  or  mine?"  she  asked.  With- 
out stopping  to  consider  why,  he  thought  that  it 
would  be  better  to  go  to  his  house,  and  gave  his 
distant  address  to  the  driver.  During  the  drive, 
which  was  long,  they  talked  little.  But  she  held 
one  of  his  hands  in  hers,  which  he  felt  were  small 
and  cold ;  and  except  for  that  icy,  nervous  pres- 
sure, he  might  have  thought  that  she  was  sleeping, 
as  she  lay  back  against  the  cushion  with  the  waver- 
ing reflection  of  the  blue  curtain  on  her  face. 

The  cab  stopped  on  Rue  Jacob  in  front  of  a 
students'  lodging-house.  Four  flights  of  stairs  to 
ascend ;  they  were  long  and  steep.  "  Shall  I  carry 
you?"  he  said  with  a  laugh,  but  in  an  under- 
tone, because  of  the  sleeping  house.  She  looked 
him  over  with  a  slow,  contemptuous,  yet  tender 
glance,  —  the  glance  of  experience,  which  gauged 
his  strength  and  said  plainly,  *'  Poor  little  fellow  !  " 

Thereupon,  with  a  fine  outburst  of  energy,  char- 
acteristic of  his  age  and  his  southern  blood,  he 


Sappho,  1 1 

seized  her  and  carried  her  like  a  child,  —  for  he 
was  a  sturdy,  strapping  youth  for  all  his  fair 
girlish  skin,  —  and  he  went  up  the  first  flight  at  a 
breath,  exulting  in  the  weight  suspended  about 
his  neck  by  two  lovely,  cool  bare  arms. 

The  second  flight  was  longer,  less  pleasant.  The 
woman  hung  more  heavily  as  they  ascended.  Her 
iron  pendants,  which  at  first  caressed  him  with  a 
pleasant  tickling  sensation,  sank  slowly  and  pain- 
fully into  his  flesh. 

At  the  third  flight  he  panted  like  a  piano-mover ; 
his  breath  almost  failed  him,  while  she  murmured 
ecstatically,  "  Oh !  niarni,  how  nice  this  is !  how 
comfortable  I  am !  "  And  the  last  stairs,  which 
he  climbed  one  by  one,  seemed  to  him  to  belong 
to  a  giant  staircase,  whose  walls  and  rail  and  nar- 
row windows  twisted  round  and  round  in  an  inter- 
minable spiral.  It  was  no  longer  a  woman  he  was 
carrying,  but  something  heavy,  ghastly,  which 
suffocated  him,  and  which  he  was  momentarily 
tempted  to  drop,  to  throw  down  angrily  at  the 
risk  of  crushing  her  brutally. 

When  they  reached  the  narrow  landing,  "Al- 
ready !  "  she  exclaimed,  and  opened  her  eyes.  He 
thought,  "  At  last !  "  but  could  not  have  said  it, 
for  he  was  very  pale,  and  held  both  hands  to  his 
breast,  which  seemed  as  if  it  would  burst. 

The  ascent  of  those  stairs  in  the  melancholy 
grayness  of  the  morning  was  an  epitome  of  their 
whole  history. 


12  Sappho. 


IT. 


He  kept  her  two  days;  then  she  went  away, 
leaving  behind  her  a  memory  of  soft  flesh  and  fine 
linen.  He  knew  nothing  of  her  but  her  name,  her 
address,  and  these  words :  "  When  you  want  me, 
call  me  —  I  shall  always  be  ready." 

The  little  card,  dainty  and  perfumed,  read :  — 


FANNY  LEGRAND 

b  Rue  de  V Arcade 


He  stuck  it  in  his  mirror,  between  an  invitation 
to  the  last  ball  at  the  Department  of  Foreign  Af- 
fairs and  the  fanciful,  illuminated  programme  of 
Dechelette's  evening-party,  his  only  two  appear- 
ances in  society  of  the  year ;  and  the  memory  of 
the  woman,  which  hovered  for  several  days  around 
the  fireplace  in  that  faint,  delicate  perfume,  faded 
away  with  it ;  nor  was  Gaussin,  who  was  a  serious, 
hard-working  youth,  especially  distrustful  of  the 
temptations  of  Paris,  conscious  of  an  inclination  to 
renew  that  amourette  of  a  day. 

The  ministerial  examination  took  place  in 
November.  He  had  but  three  months  to  prepare 
for  it.  After  that  would  come  a  probationary  term 
of  three  or  four  years  in  the  offices  of  the  consular 
service ;  then  he  would  be  sent  away  somewhere, 


Sappho,  1 3 

a  long  distance  away.  That  idea  of  exile  did  not 
alarm  him;  for  a  tradition  among  the  Gaussins 
d'Armandy,  an  old  Avignon  family,  demanded 
that  the  oldest  son  should  follow  what  is  called  the 
career,  with  the  example,  the  encouragement,  and 
the  moral  protection  of  those  who  had  preceded 
him  in  it.  In  the  view  of  that  young  provincial 
Paris  was  simply  the  first  port  in  a  very  long 
voyage,  which  fact  prevented  him  from  forming 
any  serious  connection,  either  by  way  of  love  or 
friendship. 

One  evening,  a  week  or  two  after  the  D^chelette 
ball,  as  Gaussin,  having  lighted  his  lamp  and 
arranged  his  books  on  the  table,  was  about  to 
begin  to  work,  some  one  knocked  timidly;  and 
when  he  opened  the  door,  a  woman  appeared, 
dressed  in  a  light  and  fashionable  costume.  He 
did  not  recognize  her  until  she  lifted  her  veil. 

**  You  see,  it's  I.     I  have  come  back." 

As  she  detected  the  anxious,  annoyed  glance  he 
cast  at  the  task  awaiting  him,  she  added,  — 

**  Oh  !  I  won't  disturb  you  —  I  know  what  that 
is." 

She  removed  her  hat,  took  up  a  number  of  Le 
Tour  de  Monde,  settled  herself  in  a  chair,  and  did 
not  stir,  being  apparently  absorbed  by  what  she 
was  reading ;  but  every  time  that  he  raised  his  eyes, 
he  met  her  glance. 

And  in  very  truth,  it  required  courage  for  him 
to  refrain  from  taking  her  in  his  arms  at  once,  for 
she  was  very  tempting  and  very  charming,  with 
her  little  face  with  its  low  forehead,  short  nose,  sen- 


14  Sappho, 

sual  and  kindly  lip,  and  the  mature  suppleness  of 
her  figure  in  that  dress,  thoroughly  Parisian  in  its 
faultless  style,  and  less  terrifying  to  him  than  her 
Egyptian  costume. 

She  left  him  early  the  next  morning,  and  re- 
turned several  times  during  the  week,  always  with 
the  same  pallor,  the  same  cold,  moist  hands,  the 
same  voice  trembling  with  emotion. 

''  Oh  !  I  know  perfectly  well  that  I  bore  you," 
she  would  say  to  him,  "  that  I  tire  you.  I  ought 
to  be  more  proud.  Would  you  believe  it?  Every 
morning,  when  I  leave  you,  I  swear  that  I  will  not 
come  again ;  and  then  at  night  it  seizes  me  again 
like  an  attack  of  insanity." 

He  gazed  at  her,  amused,  surprised,  in  his  scorn 
of  the  woman,  by  that  amorous  persistence.  The 
women  he  had  known  hitherto,  met  at  beer-shops 
or  skating-rinks,  and,  sometimes  young  and  pretty, 
left  behind  them  a  feeling  of  disgust  with  their 
idiotic  laughter,  their  cooks'  hands,  and  with  a 
certain  vulgarity  in  their  instincts  and  their  speech 
which  led  him  to  open  the  window  when  they  had 
gone.  1 1n  his  innocence,  he  fancied  that  all  women 
of  pleasure  were  of  the  same  sort.  So  that  he  was 
amazed  to  find  in  Fanny  a  genuine  womanly 
gentleness  and  reserve,  with  the  superiority  over 
the  bourgeois  women  he  was  accustomed  to  meet 
in  his  mother's  house  in  the  province,  due  to  a 
smattering  of  art,  a  familiarity  with  all  sorts  of 
subjects,  which  made  their  conversations  varied 
and  interesting. 

And  then  she  was  musical,  accompanied  herself 


Sappho.  1 5 

on  the  piano,  and  sang,  in  a  somewhat  worn  and 
uneven  but  well-trained  voice,  romanzas  by 
Chopin  or  Schumann,  provincial  ballads,  airs  of 
Berri,  Bourguignon,  or  Picardie,  of  which  she  had 
an  extensive  repertory. 

Gaussin,  who  was  mad  over  music,  that  art  of 
indolence  and  of  the  open  air  in  which  the  people 
of  his  province  take  such  pleasure,  was  spurred  on 
by  music  in  his  working  hours,  and  found  it  deli- 
ciously  soothing  in  his  moments  of  repose.  And 
from  Fanny's  lips  it  was  especially  delightful  to 
him.  He  was  surprised  that  she  was  not  engaged 
at  any  theatre,  and  learned  that  she  had  sung  at 
the  Lyrique.  "  But  not  for  long ;  it  was  too  much 
of  a  bore." 

There  was  no  suggestion  about  her  of  the  studied, 
conventional  manners  of  the  stage-performer ;  not 
a  shadow  of  vanity  or  of  falseness.  Simply  a  cer- 
tain mystery  concerning  her  life  away  from  him,  a 
mystery  not  divulged  even  in  the  hours  of  passion  ; 
nor  did  her  lover  try  to  solve  it,  being  neither  jeal- 
ous nor  inquisitive,  allowing  her  to  arrive  at  the 
stated  time  without  even  looking  at  the  clock, 
ignorant  as  yet  of  the  sensation  of  suspense,  of 
those  violent  blows  of  the  heart  against  the  breast 
betokening  desire  and  impatience. 

From  time  to  time, (the  weather  being  very  fine 
that  summer,  they  set  out  on  voyages  of  discovery 
among  the  charming  nooks  in  the  outskirts  of 
Paris,  with  which  her  acquaintance  was  most  pre- 
cise and  thorough.  They  formed  part  of  the  noisy 
multitude  at  some  suburban  railway  station,  break- 


1 6  Sappho. 

fasted  at  a  cabaret  on  the  edge  of  a  forest  or  lake, 
avoiding  only  certain  too  frequented  spots.  One 
day  he  suggested  that  they  go  to  Vaux-de-Cernay, 
"  No,  no,  not  there ;   there  are  too  many  painters." 

And  he  remembered  that  that  antipathy  of  hers 
for  artists  had  been  the  beginning  of  their  love. 
When  he  asked  her  the  reason  for  it,  she  said,  — 

"  They  are  crazy,  inexplicable  creatures,  who 
always  tell  more  than  they  know.  They  have 
done  me  a  great  deal  of  harm." 

"  But,"  he  protested,  "  art  is  a  noble  thing. 
There  is  nothing  like  it  to  embellish,  broaden 
one's  views  of  hfe." 

*'  Ah  !  my  dear,  the  noble  thing  is  to  be  simple 
and  upright  as  you  are,  to  be  twenty  years  old,  and 
to  love  dearly." 

Twenty  years  old  !  you  would  have  said  she  was 
no  more  than  that,  to  see  her  so  full  of  life,  always 
ready,  laughing  at  everything,  pleased  with  every- 
thing. 

One  evening  they  arrived  at  Saint-Clair  in  the 
valley  of  Chevreuse  the  night  before  a  holiday,  and 
could  find  no  room.  It  was  late,  and  they  must 
pass  through  a  league  of  forest  in  the  dark  to  reach 
the  next  village.  At  last  they  were  offered  an  un- 
occupied cot-bed  at  the  end  of  a  barn  in  which 
masons  slept. 

"  Come  on,"  said  she,  with  a  laugh ;  *'  it  will 
remind  me  of  my  days  of  poverty." 

So  she  had  known  poverty  ! 

They  crept  along,  feeling  their  way  between  the 
occupied  beds  in  the  great  roughly  whitewashed 


Sappho.  1 7 

apartment,  where  a  night  light  was  smoking  in  a 
niche  in  the  wall ;  and  all  night  long,  lying  side  by- 
side,  they  smothered  their  kisses  and  their  laughter, 
hstening  to  the  snoring,  the  groans  of  weariness  of 
their  room-mates,  whose  cotton  caps  and  heavy 
working-shoes  lay  close  beside  the  Parisian  girl's 
silk  dress  and  dainty  boots. 

At  day-break  a  wicket  opened  in  the  lower  part 
of  the  great  door,  a  ray  of  white  light  touched 
lightly  the  bed-cords  and  the  hard  earth,  while  a 
hoarse  voice  shouted,  "  Ohe !  time  to  get  up  !  " 
Then  there  ensued  a  slow,  painful  commotion  in 
the  barn,  once  more  in  darkness  ;  yawnings,  stretch- 
ings, hoarse  coughs,  the  depressing  sounds  of  a 
room  full  of  human  beings  just  aroused  from  sleep  ; 
and  the  Limousins  went  away  one  by  one,  heavily 
and  in  silence,  having  no  suspicion  that  they  had 
slept  in  close  proximity  to  a  lovely  girl. 

After  they  had  gone,  she  rose,  put  on  her  dress 
by  feeling,  and  hastily  twisted  up  her  hair.  "Wait 
here,  I  will  come  back  in  a  moment."  She  came 
back  in  a  moment  with  an  enormous  armful  of 
wild  flowers  dripping  with  dew.  *'  Now  let  us 
go  to  sleep,"  she  said,  scattering  over  the  bed 
the  cool  perfume  of  the  early  morning  blossoms, 
which  revivified  the  atmosphere  about  them. 
And  she  had  never  seemed  so  pretty  to  him  as 
she  did  standing  in  the  doorway  of  that  barn, 
laughing  in  the  morning  light,  with  her  light  curls 
flying  and  her  riotous  nosegay. 

Another  time  they  breakfasted  at  Ville  d'Avray, 
beside  the  pond.     An  autumn  morning  enveloped 


ig  Sappho, 

with  mist  the  placid  water  and  the  ruddy  foliage 
of  the  woods  in  front  of  them ;  they  were  alone 
in  the  little  garden  of  the  restaurant,  kissing  as 
they  ate  their  fish.  Suddenly,  from  the  rustic 
paviHon  in  the  branches  of  the  plane-tree  at  the 
foot  of  which  their  ^table  stood,  a  loud,  bantering 
voice  called  down  to  them,  **  I  say,  you  people, 
when  do  you  propose  to  be  done  with  your  billing 
and  cooing?"  And  the  lion's  face  and  red  mus- 
tache of  the  sculptor  Caoudal  peered  through  the 
opening  of  the  Httle  rustic  chalet. 

**  I  should  very  much  like  to  come  down  and 
breakfast  with  you.  I  'm  as  bored  as  an  owl  here 
in  my  tree." 

Fanny  did  not  reply,  being  visibly  annoyed  by 
the  meeting;  Jean,  on  the  other  hand,  accepted 
the  suggestion  instantly,  for  he  was  curious  to  see 
the  famous  artist  and  flattered  to  have  him  at  his 
table. 

Caoudal,  very  coquettishly  attired  in  what  seemed 
to  be  a  iieglig^  costume,  although  everything  was 
carefully  studied,  from  the  cravat  of  white  crepe 
de  Chine  to  enhven  a  complexion  seared  with 
wrinkles  and  pimples,  to  the  jacket  fitting  tightly 
to  the  still  slender  figure  and  the  sweUing  muscles 
—  Caoudal  looked  older  than  at  Dechelette's  ball. 

But  what  surprised  and  even  embarrassed  him 
a  little  was  the  intimate  tone  which  the  sculptor 
adopted  with  his  mistress.  He  called  her  Fanny, 
addressed  her  in  the  most  familiar  way.  "  You 
know,"  he  said,  as  he  placed  his  plate  on  their 
table,  "  I   have  been   a  widower  for  a  fortnight. 


Sappho,  19 

Maria  has  gone  off  with  Morateur.  I  did  n't  mind 
it  at  first.  But  this  morning,  when  I  went  to  the 
studio,  I  found  I  was  as  lazy  as  the  deuce.  Impos- 
sible to  work.  So  I  left  my  group  and  came  out 
to  breakfast  in  the  country.  It 's  a  wretched  idea 
when  one  's  alone.  A  little  more  and  I  should 
have  cried  into  my  stew." 

He  glanced  at  the  Provencal,  whose  wavy  beard 
and  curly  hair  were  of  the  color  of  the  Sauterne  in 
the  glasses. 

"  Youth  's  a  fine  thing  !  No  danger  of  any  one 
leaving  him  !  And  the  strangest  part  of  it  is  that 
it 's  catching.     She  looks  as  young  as  he  does." 

**  Saucy  creature  !  "  she  exclaimed  with  a  laugh ; 
and  her  laughter  rang  with  the  fascination  that 
knows  no  age,  the  youth  of  the  woman  who  loves 
and  wishes  to  be  loved. 

"  Astonishing  !  astonishing  !  "  muttered  Caoudal, 
scrutinizing  them  both  as  he  ate,  with  a  contor- 
tion of  melancholy  and  envy  at  the  corners  of 
his  mouth.  "  I  say,  Fanny,  do  you  remember 
a  breakfast  here  —  it  was  a  long  while  ago, 
damme !  —  there  was  Ezane,  Dejoie,  the  whole 
crowd,  and  you  fell  into  the  pond.  We  had 
dressed  you  up  as  a  man,  with  the  fish-warden's 
jacket.     It  was  mightily  becoming  to  you." 

"  Don't  remember,"  she  replied  coldly  and 
truthfully;  for  such  changing,  hap-hazard  crea- 
tures never  see  aught  but  the  present  moment 
of  their  love.  They  have  no  memory  of  what  has 
gone  before,  no  fear  of  what  may  come  after. 

Caoudal,  on  the  contrary,  his  mind  dwelling  on 


20  Sappho. 

the  past,  punctuated  with  copious  draughts  of 
Sauterne  the  exploits  of  his  lusty  youth,  in  love 
and  drinking,  picnic  parties,  opera  balls,  profes- 
sional achievements,  battles,  and  conquests.  But 
when  he  turned  toward  them  with  the  reflection  of 
all  the  flames  he  had  kindled  gleaming  in  his  eyes, 
he  saw  that  they  were  not  listening  to  him,  but 
were  picking  grapes  from  each  other's  lips. 

**  How  tiresome  it  must  be  to  listen  to  what  I  'm 
telling  you !  Oh !  yes,  I  am  a  terrible  bore. 
Damme  !     It 's  a  beastly  thing  to  be  old  !  " 

He  rose  and  threw  down  his  napkin.  **  Charge 
the  breakfast  to  me,  Pere  Langlois,"  he  shouted 
in  the  direction  of  the  restaurant. 

He  walked  sadly  away,  dragging  his  feet  as  if 
suffering  from  an  incurable  disease.  For  a  long 
while  the  lovers  looked  after  his  tall  figure  stoop- 
ing under  the  golden-hued  leaves. 

*'  Poor  Caoudal !  he  certainly  is  getting  heavy," 
murmured  Fanny,  in  a  tone  of  sweet  compassion; 
and  when  Gaussin  expressed  his  indignation  that 
Maria,  a  harlot,  a  model,  could  find  any  amuse- 
ment in  the  sufferings  of  a  Caoudal  and  prefer  to 
the  great  artist  —  whom?  —  Morateur,  an  obscure 
painter,  of  no  talent,  with  nothing  in  his  favor  but 
his  youth,  she  began  to  laugh,  "  Oh !  you  inno- 
cent !  you  innocent !  "  and  throwing  his  head  back 
on  her  knees  with  both  hands,  she  buried  her  face 
in  his  eyes  and  hair  as  in  a  bouquet. 

That  evening  Jean  slept  for  the  first  time  in  his 
mistress's  room,  after  she  had  tormented  him  to 
do  it  for  three  months :  — 


Sappho.  2 1 

"  Come,  tell  me  —  why  you  don't  want  to." 
^'  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  like  the  idea." 
"  But  I  tell  you  that  I  am  free,  that  I  am  alone.'* 
Assisted  by  the  fatigue  of  the  excursion  into  the 
country,  she  succeeded  in  enticing  him  to  Rue  de 
I'Arcade,  which  was  quite  near  the  station.    On  the 
entresol  of  a  plain,  substantial  house  an  old  servant 
in  a  peasant's  cap,  with  a  sullen  air,  opened  the 
door  for  them. 

"This  is  Machaume.  Good-evening,  Machaume," 
said  Fanny,  throwing  her  arms  around  her  neck. 
"This  is  he,  you  know,  my  beloved,  my  king;  I 
have  brought  him  to  the  house.  Light  every- 
thing at  once,  make  the  place  beautiful." 

Jean  was  left  alone  in  a  very  small  salon  with  low- 
arched  windows  hung  with  curtains  of  the  same 
common  blue  silk  with  which  the  divans  and  several 
pieces  of  lacquered  furniture  were  covered.  On  the 
walls  were  three  or  four  landscapes,  which  lightened 
and  enlivened  the  monotony  of  the  hangings ;  all 
of  them  bore  a  dedication :  "  To  Fanny  Legrand," 
"  To  my  dear  Fanny." 

On  the  mantel  was  a  half-size  copy  in  marble  of 
Caoudal's  Sappho,  which  is  to  be  found  every- 
where in  bronze,  and  which  Gaussin  had  seen  in 
his  father's  study  in  his  childhood.  By  the 
Hght  of  the  single  candle  which  stood  near  the 
base,  he  detected  in  that  work  of  art  a  resem- 
blance, refined  and  rejuvenated  as  it  were,  to  his 
mistress.  The  Hues  of  the  profile,  the  movement 
of  the  figure  under  the  drapery,  the  tapering 
roundness  of  the  arms  wound   about  the  knees, 


22  Sappho. 

were  familiar,  well  known  to  him ;  his  eye  gloated  on 
them  with  the  memory  of  more  tender  sensations, 

Fanny,  finding  him  in  rapt  contemplation  before 
the  figure,  said  to  him  with  an  indifferent  air: 
"There  is  a  touch  of  me  in  it,  isn't  there? 
Caoudal's  model  looked  like  me."  And  she  led 
him  forthwith  into  her  bedroom,  where  Machaume 
was  sulkily  laying  two  covers  upon  a  small  table ; 
all  the  candles  lighted,  even  those  beside  the  mir- 
ror in  the  wardrobe  door,  a  lovely  wood  fire, 
bright  as  a  first  flame,  crackling  under  the  spark- 
fenders, —  the  chamber  of  a  woman  dressing  for 
a  ball. 

"  I  preferred  to  sup  here,"  she  said  with  a  laugh. 

Never  had  Jean  seen  such  a  daintily  furnished 
room.  The  Louis  XVI.  silks,  the  light  musHns 
of  his  mother's  and  sisters'  rooms  had  nothing 
whatever  in  common  with  that  downy,  fluffy  nest 
where  the  woodwork  was  hidden  behind  delicate 
satins,  where  the  bed  was  simply  a  couch  wider 
than  the  others,  placed  at  the  end  of  the  room  on 
white  furs. 

Delicious  was  that  caressing  touch  of  light,  of 
warmth,  of  blue  reflections  prolonged  in  the 
bevelled  mirrors,  after  their  wandering  through 
the  fields,  the  shower  they  had  encountered,  the 
mud  of  the  sunken  roads  in  the  fading  light.  But 
the  one  thing  that  prevented  his  enjoying  that  for- 
tuitous luxury  like  a  true  provincial  was  the  ser- 
vant's ill-humor,  the  suspicious  look  with  which 
she  eyed  him,  so  noticeably  that  Fanny  dismissed 
her  with  a  word :  *'  Leave  us,  Machaume ;  we  will 


Sappho,  23 

wait  on  ourselves."  And  as  the  woman  went  out, 
slamming  the  door  behind  her,  she  added :  '*  Don't 
take  any  notice  of  her ;  she  's  angry  with  me  for 
loving  you  too  well.  She  says  that  I  am  throw- 
ing away  my  life.  These  country  people  are  so 
greedy !  Her  cooking,  by  the  way,  is  better  than 
she  is.     Just  taste  this  terrinc  of  hare." 

She  cut  the  pie,  poured  out  the  champagne, 
forgot  to  help  herself  in  order  to  watch  him  eat, 
at  every  movement  throwing  back  to  the  shoulder 
the  sleeves  of  an  Algerian  gandoiiray  of  soft  white 
wool,  which  she  always  wore  in  the  house.  She 
reminded  him  so  of  their  first  meeting  at  Deche- 
lette's;  and,  crowded  into  the  same  chair,  eating 
from  the  same  plate,  they  talked  of  that  evening. 

"  Oh  !  for  my  part,"  said  she,  "  as  soon  as  I  saw 
you  come  in,  I  wanted  you.  I  would  have  liked 
to  seize  you,  to  carry  you  off  at  once,  so  that  the 
others  should  n't  have  you.  Now  tell  me  what 
you  thought  when  you  saw  me?" 

At  first  she  had  frightened  him;  then  he  had 
felt  full  of  confidence,  perfectly  at  home  with  her. 
''  By  the  way,"  said  he,  "  I  never  asked  you  why 
you  got  angry.  Was  it  on  account  of  those  two 
lines  of  La  Gournerie's?  " 

She  frowned  again,  the  same  frown  as  at  the 
ball,  then  said,  with  a  toss  of  the  head,  "  Non- 
sense !  let  us  say  no  more  about  it."  And  with 
her  arms  around  him,  she  continued :  "  The  fact 
is  that  I  was  a  little  bit  afraid,  myself  I  tried  to 
escape,  to  recover  myself,  but  I  could  n't,  and  now 
I  never  can." 


24  Sappho. 

"Oh!  never?'* 

"  You  will  see  !  " 

He  contented  himself  with  answering  with  the 
sceptical  smile  of  his  years,  heedless  of  the  pas- 
sionate, almost  threatening  tone  in  which  that 
"  You  will  see !  "  was  uttered.  The  pressure  of 
her  arms  was  so  soft,  so  submissive;  he  firmly 
believed  that  he  had  only  to  make  a  gesture  to 
release  himself. 

But  why  release  himself  ?  He  was  so  comfort- 
able in  the  cosseting  atmosphere  of  that  voluptu- 
ous chamber,  so  dehciously  benumbed  by  that 
caressing  breath  upon  his  drooping  eyelids,  heavy 
with  sleep,  closing  upon  fleeting  visions  of  golden 
woods,  meadows,  dripping  mill-wheels,  their  whole 
day  of  love  in  the  country. 

In  the  morning  he  was  awakened  abruptly  by 
Machaume's  voice  shouting  unceremoniously  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed ;  "  He  is  here ;  he  wants  to 
speak  to  you." 

"  What 's  that !  he  wants  to  speak  to  me  ?  So 
I  am  no  longer  in  my  own  house,  it  seems !  And 
you  allowed  him  to  come  in !  " 

In  a  rage,  she  leaped  out  of  bed  and  rushed 
from  the  chamber,  half  naked,  her  night-dress 
open. 

*'  Don't  stir,  my  dear,  I  will  come  back." 

But  he  did  not  wait,  nor  did  he  feel  at  ease  until 
he  too  had  risen  and  was  fully  dressed,  his  feet 
safely  in  his  boots. 

As  he  was  putting  on  his  clothes  in  the  hermeti- 
cally closed  ropm,  where  the  night-light  still  shone 


Sappho,  25 

upon  the  confusion  of  the  little  supper,  he  heard 
the  sounds  of  a  terrific  quarrel,  muffled  by  the 
hangings  of  the  salon.  A  man's  voice,  angry  at 
first,  then  imploring,  its  outbursts  ending  in  sobs, 
in  helpless  tears,  alternated  with  another  voice 
which  he  did  not  recognize  at  once,  it  was  so 
harsh  and  hoarse,  laden  with  hatred  and  with 
degrading  words,  reminding  him  of  a  dispute 
between  prostitutes  in  a  beer-shop. 

All  that  amorous  luxuriousness  was  marred  by 
the  incident,  besmirched  as  if  the  silk  were  spat- 
tered with  mud ;  and  the  woman,  too,  was  degraded 
to  the  level  of  the  others  whom  he  had  despised 
hitherto. 

She  returned  to  the  room  panting,  twisting  her 
dishevelled  hair  with  a  graceful  gesture  :  "  Is  there 
anything  so  stupid  as  a  man  crying?"  Then, 
seeing  that  he  was  up  and  dressed,  she  uttered  an 
angry  exclamation  :  "  You  have  gotten  up  !  —  go 
back  to  bed  —  at  once. —  I  say  you  shall."  Then 
suddenly  softened,  embracing  him  with  voice  and 
gesture:  "No,  no! — don't  go  —  you  cannot  go 
like  this.  In  the  first  place,  I  am  sure  that  you 
won't  come  back." 

'*  Why,  yes,  I  will.  What  makes  you  think 
so?" 

*'  Swear  that  you  're  not  angry,  that  you  will 
come  again.     Ah !  you  see  I  know  you." 

He  swore  whatever  she  wanted,  but  would  not 
return  to  bed,  despite  her  entreaties,  and  her  re- 
peated assurances  that  she  was  in  her  own  house, 
perfectly  free  as  to  her  life  and  her  acts.     At  last 


26  Sappho, 

she  seemed  to  be  resigned  to  allowing  him  to  go, 
and  accompanied  him  as  far  as  the  door,  with  no 
trace  about  her  of  the  female  satyr  in  a  frenzy,  but 
very  humble,  trying  to  obtain  forgiveness. 

A  long,  cHnging  farewell  caress  detained  them 
in  the  anteroom. 

"Well,  when  shall  it  be?"  she  asked,  her  eyes 
buried  in  his.  He  was  about  to  reply,  with  a  false- 
hood doubtless,  in  his  haste  to  be  gone,  when  a  ring 
at  the  door-bell  checked  him.  Machaume  came 
out  of  her  kitchen,  but  Fanny  motioned  to  her: 
"  No,  do  not  open  the  door."  And  they  stood 
there,  all  three,  motionless,  without  speaking. 

They  heard  a  stifled  groan,  then  the  rustling  of 
a  letter  being  pushed  under  the  door,  and  foot- 
steps slowly  descending  the  stairs. 

''  Did  n't  I  tell  you  that  I  was  free?     Look  !  " 

She  handed  her  lover  the  letter  which  she  had 
opened,  —  a  poor,  miserable  love-letter,  very  cring- 
ing, very  cowardly,  scrawled  in  haste  on  a  cafe 
table,  in  which  the  poor  devil  asked  forgiveness  for 
his  madness  of  the  morning,  acknowledged  that  he 
had  no  right  over  her  save  such  as  she  chose  to 
accord  him,  begged  her  on  his  knees  not  to  banish 
him  irrevocably,  promising  to  agree  to  anything, 
to  be  resigned  to  anything  —  but  not  to  lose  her, 
great  God  !  not  to  lose  her. 

*'  Fancy !  "  she  said  with  a  wicked  laugh ;  and 
that  laugh  finally  closed  to  her  the  heart  that  she 
sought  to  win.  Jean  thought  her  cruel.  He  had 
not  learned  as  yet  that  the  woman  who  loves  has 
no  bowels  of  compassion  save  for  her  love ;  that  all 


Sappho,  27 

her  active  powers  of  charity,  kindness,  pity,  devo- 
tion are  absorbed  for  the  benefit  of  one  human 
being,  a  single  one. 

"  You  do  very  wrong  to  make  sport  of  him. 
That  letter  is  horribly  pathetic  and  heartrending." 
And  he  added  in  a  low  voice,  holding  her  hands : 
"  Tell  me,  why  do  you  turn  him  away?  " 

"  I  don't  want  him  any  more.    I  don't  love  him." 

"  But  he  was  your  lover.  He  provided  this  lux- 
ury in  which  you  live,  in  which  you  have  always 
lived,  which  is  necessary  to  your  happiness." 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  in  her  frank  way,  "when 
I  did  n't  know  you,  I  thought  this  was  all  very 
nice.  Now  it  is  a  bore,  a  disgrace ;  my  heart 
rises  against  it.  Oh !  I  know  you  will  tell  me 
that  you  're  not  in  earnest  about  it,  that  you  don't 
love  me.  But  I  make  that  my  business.  I  will 
force  you  to  love  me,  whether  you  will  or  no.'* 

He  made  no  reply,  agreed  to  meet  her  the  next 
day,  and  made  his  escape,  leaving  a  few  louis  for 
Machaume,  the  drainings  of  his  student's  purse,  to 
pay  for  the  terrine.  So  far  as  he  was  concerned 
it  was  all  over.  What  right  had  he  to  bring  con- 
fusion into  that  woman's  existence,  and  what  could 
he  offer  her  in  exchange  for  what  she  would  lose 
through  him? 

He  wrote  her  to  that  effect  the  same  day,  as 
gently,  as  sincerely  as  he  could,  but  without  tell- 
ing her  that  he  had  felt  that  their  liaison,  that 
pleasant,  attractive  caprice,  had  suffered  a  violent 
and  fatal  blow  when  he  heard,  after  his  night  of 
love,  that  betrayed  lover's  sobs  alternating  with 


28  Sappho, 

her  own  sneering  laughter  and  her  laundress's 
oaths. 

In  that  tall  youth,  whose  heart  was  far  away 
from  Paris,  in  the  midst  of  the  Provencal  moors, 
there  was  a  touch  of  the  paternal  roughness  and 
all  the  delicacy  of  feehng,  all  the  nervous  tempera- 
ment of  his  mother,  whom  he  resembled  as  closely 
as  a  portrait.  And  to  defend  him  against  the  al- 
lurements of  pleasure  he  had  in  addition  the  ex- 
ample of  a  brother  of  his  father,  whose  dissipation 
and  wild  career  had  half  ruined  the  family  and 
endangered  the  honor  of  the  name. 

Uncle  Cesaire  !  With  just  those  two  words  and 
the  domestic  drama  they  recalled,  one  might  de- 
mand from  Jean  sacrifices  much  more  painful  than 
that  of  this  amourette^  to  which  he  had  never  at- 
tached great  importance.  However,  it  was  harder 
to  break  than  he  had  imagined. 

Although  formally  dismissed,  she  returned  again 
and  again,  undiscouraged  by  his  refusals  to  see 
her,  by  the  closed  door,  by  his  inexorable  orders. 
*'  I  have  no  self-esteem,"  she  wrote  him.  She 
watched  for  him  to  go  to  the  restaurant  for  his 
meals,  waited  for  him  in  front  of  the  cafe  where  he 
read  the  newspapers.  And  no  tears,  no  scenes. 
If  he  were  with  other  men  she  contented  herself 
with  following  him,  with  watching  for  the  moment 
when  he  should  be  alone. 

"  Do  you  want  to  see  me  to-night?  No?  Some 
other  time  then."  And  she  would  go  her  way 
with  the  gentle  resignation  of  the  peddler  strapping 
up  his  pack,  leaving  him  remorseful  for  his  cruelty 


Sappho,  29 

and  humiliated  by  the  lie  he  stammered  at  every 
meeting.  '*  The  examination  was  close  at  hand  — 
he  had  no  time.  After  that,  later,  if  she  still 
cared."  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  intended,  as  soon 
as  he  had  passed,  to  take  a  month's  vacation  in 
the  South,  expecting  that  she  would  forget  him 
in  that  time. 

Unfortunately,  when  the  examination  was  over, 
Jean  fell  sick, —  a  severe  inflammation  of  the  throat, 
caught  in  a  corridor  at  the  department,  which  as- 
sumed serious  proportions  as  the  result  of  neglect. 
He  knew  no  one  in  Paris  save  a  few  students  from 
his  province,  whom  his  engrossing  liaison  had 
estranged  and  scattered.  Moreover,  under  the 
circumstances,  something  more  than  ordinary  de- 
votion was  required,  and  the  very  first  night  Fanny 
Legrand  established  herself  beside  his  bed  and 
did  not  leave  him  for  ten  days,  nursing  him  tire- 
lessly, without  fear  or  disgust,  as  deft  as  a  profes- 
sional nurse,  with  affectionate,  coaxing  ways,  and 
sometimes,  in  his  hours  of  fever,  carrying  him 
back  to  a  serious  illness  of  his  childhood,  so  that 
he  called  her  his  aunt  Divonne  and  said,  *'  Thank 
you,  Divonne,"  when  he  felt  Fanny's  hands  on  his 
burning  forehead. 

"  It  is  n't  Divonne,  it 's  I  —  I  am  taking  care  of 
you." 

She  saved  him  from  mercenary  nursing,  from 
fires  stupidly  allowed  to  go  out,  from  draughts 
brewed  in  a  concierge's  lodge ;  and  Jean  was  con- 
stantly surprised  at  the  activity,  the  ingenuity,  the 
nimbleness  of  those  indolent,  pleasure-loving  hands. 


30  Sappho. 

At  night  she  slept  two  hours  on  the  couch,  —  a 
boarding  house  couch,  as  soft  as  the  plank  bed  of 
a  police-station. 

"  Pray  do  you  never  go  home,  my  poor  Fanny?  " 
he  asked  her  one  day.  "  I  am  better  now.  You 
must  go  and  set  Machaume's  mind  at  rest." 

She  began  to  laugh.  A  fine  time  she  was  hav- 
ing, was  Machaume,  and  all  the  house  with  her. 
They  had  sold  everything,  furniture,  clothes,  even 
the  bedding.  All  she  had  left  was  the  dress  on 
her  back,  and  a  little  fine  linen  saved  by  her  maid. 
Now,  if  he  turned  her  away,  she  would  be  in  the 
gutter. 


Sappho.  31 


III. 


"This  time  I  think  I  have  found  what  we  want. 
Rue  d'Amsterdam,  opposite  the  station.  Three 
rooms  and  a  great  balcony.  If  you  choose,  we 
will  go  and  look  at  it  when  you  leave  the  office. 
It's  high  up,  fifth  floor  —  but  you  can  carry  me. 
That  was  so  nice,  do  you  remember?" 

Highly  amused  by  the  memory,  she  clung  to 
him,  nestled  against  his  neck,  seeking  the  old 
place,  her  place. 

Their  life  had  become  intolerable  in  their  fur- 
nished lodgings,  with  all  that  the  term  implies,  the 
chattering  of  girls  in  nets  and  old  shoes  on  the 
stairways,  the  paper  partitions  behind  which  other 
households  swarmed,  the  promiscuous  mixing  up 
of  keys,  candlesticks,  and  boots.  Not  to  her,  cer- 
tainly; with  Jean,  the  roof,  the  cellar,  even  the 
sewer  would  have  made  a  satisfactory  nesting-place 
for  her.  But  the  lover's  refinement  took  offence  at 
certain  associations,  to  which,  as  a  bachelor,  he 
had  given  no  thought.  Those  one-night  households 
annoyed  him,  seemed  to  cast  dishonor  upon  his 
own  establishment,  caused  him  something  of  the 
same  sadness  and  disgust  caused  by  the  cage  of 
monkeys  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  mimicking  all  the 
gestures  and  expressions  of  human  love.  He  was 
tired  of  the  restaurant  too,  of  having  to  go  twice 
a  day  for  his  meals  to  Boulevard  Saint-Michel,  a 


32  Sappho, 

great  room  crowded  with  students,  pupils  at  the 
Beaux-Arts,  painters  and  architects,  who,  although 
they  did  not  know  him,  had  become  familiar  with 
his  face  during  the  year  he  had  dined  there. 

He  blushed,  as  he  opened  the  door,  to  see  all 
those  eyes  turned  upon  Fanny,  and  entered  with  the 
aggressive,  embarrassed  air  characteristic  of  very 
young  men  accompanied  by  a  woman;  and  he 
also  was  afraid  of  meeting  one  of  the  chiefs  of  his 
department,  or  some  one  from  his  province.  Then 
there  was  the  question  of  economy. 

"  How  expensive  this  is  !  "  she  would  say  every 
time,  running  over  the  bill  for  the  dinner,  which 
she  carried  away  with  her.  ''  If  we  were  house- 
keeping, I  could  run  the  house  three  days  for  that 
money." 

''Well,  what's  to  hinder  us?"  And  they  set 
about  finding  a  suitable  place. 

That  is  the  pitfall.  Everybody  falls  into  it,  the 
best,  the  most  honorable  of  men,  by  virtue  of  the 
instinct  of  neatness,  the  longing  for  a  '*  home, " 
instilled  in  them  by  early  education  and  the  genial 
warmth  of  the  fireside. 

The  apartment  on  Rue  d' Amsterdam  was  rented 
at  once  and  voted  delightful,  despite  its  rooms 
en  enfilade y  of  which  the  kitchen  and  living-room 
looked  out  on  a  damp  backyard  where  odors  of 
dishwater  and  chlorine  arose  from  an  EngHsh 
tavern,  and  the  bedroom  on  the  sloping,  noisy 
street,  shaken  day  and  night  by  jolting  vans  and 
drays,  cabs  and  omnibuses,  by  the  shrill  whistles 
of  arriving  and  departing  locomotives,  all  the  up- 


Sappho.  33 

roar  of  the  terminus  of  the  Chemin  de  Fer  de 
rOuest,  which  displayed  its  glass  roof  of  the  color 
of  muddy  water  directly  opposite.  The  great  ad- 
vantage of  the  location  was  the  knowledge  that 
the  train  was  close  at  hand,  and  Saint-Cloud,  Ville 
d  'Avray,  Saint-Germain,  and  all  the  verdure-clad 
stations  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine  almost  under 
their  balcony.  For  they  had  a  balcony,  broad  and 
commodious,  which  retained  from  the  munificence 
of  the  former  tenants  a  zinc  tent  painted  to  imi- 
tate striped  canvas,  dripping  wet  and  melancholy 
enough  under  the  pattering  of  the  winter  rains,  but 
a  very  pleasant  place  to  dine  in  summer,  in  the 
fresh  air,  as  in  a  mountain  chalet. 

They  turned  their  attention  to  the  matter  of 
furniture.  Jean  having  informed  Aunt  Divonne, 
who  was  the  family  steward  as  it  were,  of  his 
project  of  keeping  house,  she  sent  him  the  neces- 
sary money ;  and  her  letter  announced  at  the  same 
time  the  speedy  arrival  of  a  wardrobe,  a  commode, 
and  a  large  cane-seated  easy-chair  taken  from  the 
Cliambre  dti  Vent^  for  the  behoof  of  the  Parisian. 

That  chamber,  which  he  saw  in  his  mind's  eye  at 
the  end  of  a  corridor  at  Castelet,  always  unocupied, 
the  shutters  closed  and  barred,  the  door  secured 
with  a  bolt,  was  exposed  by  its  position  to  the  full 
fury  of  the  mistral,  which  made  its  walls  creak  like 
a  room  in  a  Hghthouse.  It  was  used  as  a  store- 
room for  old  cast-off  articles,  for  what  each  genera- 
tion relegated  to  the  past  to  make  room  for  new 
purchases. 

1  The  Windy  Chamber. 
3 


34  Sappho, 

Ah !  if  Divonne  had  known  what  strange  siestas 
would  be  taken  in  the  cane-seated  chair,  what  India 
silk  skirts  and  flounced  pantalettes  would  fill  the 
drawers  of  the  Empire  commode  !  But  Gaussin's 
remorse  on  that  account  was  swallowed  up  in  the 
numberless  little  delights  of  the  beginning  of 
housekeeping.  It  was  such  fun,  after  the  office, 
between  daylight  and  dark,  to  set  off  arm-in-arm 
on  a  voyage  of  discovery,  and  to  visit  some  street 
in  the  faubourg  to  select  a  dining-room  outfit  —  the 
sideboard,  the  table,  and  six  chairs  —  or  cretonne 
curtains  for  the  windows  and  the  bed.  He  would 
accept  anything  with  his  eyes  closed;  but  Fanny 
scrutinized  for  two,  tried  the  chairs,  experimented 
with  the  leaves  of  the  table,  showed  herself  an 
experienced  shopper. 

She  knew  the  shops  where  they  could  buy  at 
the  cost  of  manufacture  a  complete  kitchen  equip- 
ment for  a  small  family,  the  four  iron  saucepans, 
the  fifth  glazed  for  the  morning  chocolate;  no 
copper,  because  it  takes  too  long  to  clean.  Six 
metal  covers  with  soup  spoons,  and  two  dozen 
plates  of  English  ware,  strong  and  bright-colored, 
all  counted  and  packed  and  ready  for  shipment, 
like  a  doll's  teaset.  For  sheets,  napkins,  toilet 
and  table  linen,  she  knew  a  dealer,  the  agent  of 
a  great  factory  at  Roubaix,  to  whom  they  could 
pay  so  much  a  month;  and  as  she  was  always 
watching  the  shop-windows,  on  the  lookout  for 
bankrupt  sales,  for  the  wreckage  which  Paris  con- 
stantly washes  ashore  in  its  scum,  she  discovered 
on  Boulevard  Chchy,  at  second  hand,  a  magnificent 


Sappho,  35 

bed,  almost  new,  and  large  enough  for  the  ogre's 
seven  young  women  to  sleep  in  a  row. 

He  too  tried  his  hand  at  making  purchases  as 
he  returned  from  the  office;  but  he  knew  nothing 
about  it,  could  not  bear  to  say  no  or  to  leave  a 
shop  empty-handed.  Going  into  a  second-hand 
place  to  buy  an  old-fashioned  oil-cruet  which  she 
had  described  to  him,  he  brought  away  as  a  sub- 
stitute for  the  article,  which  was  already  sold,  a 
salon  chandelier  with  glass  pendants,  which  was 
quite  useless  to  them,  as  they  had  no  salon. 

**  We  will  put  it  in  the  veranda,"  said  Fanny,  to 
console  him. 

And  the  pleasure  of  taking  measurements,  the 
discussions  as  to  placing  a  piece  of  furniture ;  and 
the  shouts,  the  wild  laughter,  the  arms  thrown  up 
in  despair,  when  they  discovered  that,  despite  all 
their  precautions,  despite  the  very  complete  Hst 
of  indispensable  purchases,  something  had  been 
forgotten. 

For  instance,  the  sugar-grater.  Fancy  their 
starting  to  keep  house  without  a  sugar-grater ! 

Then,  when  everything  was  bought  and  put  in 
place,  the  curtains  hung,  a  wick  in  the  new  lamp, 
what  a  delightful  evening  was  that  first  one  in  the 
new  home,  the  careful  scrutiny  of  the  three  rooms 
before  going  to  bed,  and  how  she  laughed  as  she 
held  the  hght  while  he  locked  the  door:  "An- 
other turn ;  one  more  —  lock  it  tight.  Let  us  be 
sure  that  we  're  at  home." 

Thereupon  began  a  new,  delightful  life.  On 
leaving  his  work,  he  returned  home  at  once,  long- 


36  Sappho. 

ing  to  be  sitting  by  the  fire  in  his  sHppers.  And 
as  he  splashed  through  the  dark  streets,  he  imag- 
ined their  warm,  brightly  lighted  room,  enlivened 
by  its  old  provincial  furniture,  at  which  Fanny 
turned  up  her  nose  at  first  as  rubbish,  but  which 
had  turned  out  to  be  very  pretty  antique  pieces ; 
especially  the  wardrobe,  a  Louis  XVI.  gem,  with 
its  painted  panels,  representing  Proven9al  fetes, 
shepherds  in  jackets  of  flowered  stuff  dancing 
to  the  flute  and  the  tambourine.  The  presence 
of  those  antiquated  articles,  familiar  to  his  eyes  in 
his  childhood,  reminded  him  of  his  father's  house 
and  sanctified  his  new  home,  whose  comforts  he 
was  still  to  enjoy. 

In  answer  to  his  ring,  Fanny  appeared,  neatly 
and  coquettishly  dressed,  *'  on  deck,"  as  she  said. 
Her  dress  of  black  woollen  stuff,  without  ornament, 
but  cut  by  a  fashionable  dressmaker's  pattern,  — 
the  simplicity  of  a  woman  who  has  worn  fine  rai- 
ment,—  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  a  great  white 
apron;  for  she  herself  did  their  cooking,  and 
simply  had  a  charwoman  for  the  heavy  work 
which  chaps  the  hands  or  injures  their  shape. 

She  was  very  clever  at  it,  knew  a  multitude  of 
receipts,  dishes  of  the  North  and  South,  as  varied 
as  her  repertory  of  popular  ballads,  which,  when 
the  dinner  was  at  an  end  and  the  white  apron 
hung  behind  the  closed  door  of  the  kitchen,  she 
sang  to  him  in  her  worn  but  passionate  contralto. 

Below,  the  street  roared,  a  rushing  torrent.  The 
cold  rain  pattered  on  the  zinc  of  the  veranda;  and 
Gaussin,  in  his  easy-chair,  with  his  feet  stretched 


Sappho,  37 

out  to  the  fire,  watched  the  windows  in  the  railway 
station  opposite  and  the  clerks  stooping  to  write 
by  the  white  light  of  great  reflectors. 

He  was  very  comfortable ;  he  allowed  himself 
to  be  coddled.  In  love?  no;  but  grateful  for  the 
love  with  which  she  enveloped  him,  for  that  never- 
varying  affection.  How  could  he  have  deprived 
himself  so  long  of  that  happiness,  in  the  fear  —  at 
which  he  laughed  now  —  of  being  bewitched,  of 
assuming  a  yoke?  Was  not  his  life  more  respect- 
able than  when  he  used  to  go  about  recklessly 
from  girl  to  girl? 

There  was  no  danger  for  the  future.  Three 
years  hence,  when  he  went  away,  the  separation 
would  come  about  naturally,  without  any  shock. 
Fanny  was  forewarned ;  they  talked  about  it  to- 
gether, as  about  death,  —  a  distant  but  inevitable 
fatality.  There  remained  the  great  grief  of  his 
people  at  home  when  they  learned  that  he  did 
not  live  alone ;  the  wrath  of  his  father,  that  man 
of  rigid  principles  and  so  quick  to  act. 

But  how  could  they  find  out?  Jean  saw  no  one 
in  Paris.  His  father,  "  the  consul,"  as  he  was  called 
at  home,  was  detained  in  Provence  the  whole  year 
by  the  superintendence  of  his  very  considerable 
estates,  which  he  cultivated  himself,  and  by  his 
hard  battles  with  the  vines.  His  mother  was  help- 
less, could  not  step  or  move  without  assistance,  and 
left  to  Divonne  the  management  of  the  house 
and  the  care  of  the  two  little  twin  sisters,  Marthe 
and  Marie,  whose  unexpected  double  birth  had 
taken  away  her  strength  and  activity  forever.     As 


38  Sappho, 

for  Uncle  Cesaire,  Divonne's  husband,  he  was  a 
great  child  who  was  not  allowed  to  travel  alone. 

And  now  Fanny  knew  the  whole  family.  When 
he  received  a  letter  from  Castalet,  at  the  foot  of 
which  the  httle  girls  had  written  a  few  lines  in 
their  big  handwriting  with  their  little  fingers,  she 
read  it  over  his  shoulder,  shared  his  emotion.  Of 
her  own  previous  existence  he  knew  nothing,  asked 
no  questions.  He  had  the  attractive,  unconscious 
egotism  of  his  years,  no  jealousy,  no  anxiety. 
Full  of  his  own  life,  he  allowed  it  to  overflow, 
thought  aloud,  laid  bare  his  heart,  while  the  other 
remained  mute. 

Thus  the  days  and  weeks  passed  in  a  happy 
tranquillity  disturbed  for  a  moment  by  a  circum- 
stance which  moved  them  deeply,  but  in  different 
ways.  She  thought  that  she  was  enceinte^  and  told 
him  of  it  with  such  dehght  that  he  could  not  fail 
to  share  it.  But  at  heart  he  was  afraid.  A  child, 
at  his  age!  What  would  he  do  with  it?  Should 
he  acknowledge  it?  And  what  a  pledge  between 
himself  and  that  woman,  what  a  complication  in 
future  ! 

Suddenly  the  chain  became  visible  to  him, 
heavy,  cold,  and  riveted  about  his  neck.  He  did 
not  sleep  at  night,  nor  did  she ;  and,  lying  side  by 
side  in  their  great  bed,  they  dreamed,  open-eyed, 
a  thousand  leagues  apart. 

Luckily  that  false  alarm  was  not  repeated,  and 
they  resumed  their  peaceful,  delightfully  secluded 
life.  Then,  when  the  winter  had  passed  and  the 
real  sun  had  returned  once  more,  their  Httle  abode 


Sappho.  39 

became  still  more  charming,  enlarged  by  the  bal- 
cony and  the  tent.  At  night  they  dined  there  be- 
neath the  sky  tinged  with  green  and  streaked  by 
the  whistling  flight  of  swallows. 

The  street  sent  up  its  hot  puffs  and  all  the  sounds 
of  the  neighboring  houses  ;  but  the  slightest  breath 
of  fresh  air  was  theirs,  and  they  forgot  themselves 
for  hours,  hand  in  hand,  conscious  of  nothing. 
Jean  remembered  similar  nights  on  the  bank  of 
the  Rhone,  and  dreamed  of  distant  consulates  in 
very  warm  countries,  of  a  ship's  deck,  leaving  the 
harbor,  where  the  breeze  would  have  that  same 
long  breath  which  fluttered  the  curtain  of  the  tent. 
And  when  an  invisible  caress  upon  his  lips  mur- 
mured, "Do  you  love  me?"  he  always  returned 
from  very  far  away  to  answer,  ''  Oh !  yes,  I  love 
you."  —  That  is  what  comes  of  taking  them  so 
young;  they  have  too  many  things  in  their  heads. 

On  the  same  balcony,  separated  from  them  by 
an  iron  raihng  garlanded  with  climbing  flowers, 
another  couple  billed  and  cooed,  M.  and  Madame 
Hettema,  husband  and  wife,  very  vulgar  persons, 
whose  kisses  resounded  like  slaps  on  the  face. 
They  were  wonderfully  well-mated  in  age,  in  tastes, 
in  heavy  build,  and  it  was  touching  to  hear  those 
two  mature  lovers  singing  in  low  tones,  as  they 
leaned  on  the  balustrade,  old-fashioned  sentimen- 
tal ditties. 

"  Mais  je  I'entends  qui  soupire  dans  Tombre ; 
C'est  un  beau  reve,  ah  !  laissez-moi  dormir."  i 

1  But  I  hear  him  sighing  in  the  darkness ; 
'T  is  a  lovely  dream,  ah !  let  me  sleep. 


40  Sappho. 

They  appealed  to  Fanny ;  she  would  have  liked 
to  know  them.  Sometimes  indeed  she  and  her 
neighbor  exchanged  a  loving,  happy  woman's 
smile  over  the  blackened  railing;  but  the  men,  as 
always,  were  more  distant,  and  they  never  spoke. 

Jean  was  returning  home  from  Quai  d'Orsay 
one  afternoon  when  he  heard  some  one  call  him 
by  name  at  the  corner  of  Rue  Royale.  It  was  a 
lovely  day,  bright  and  warm,  and  Paris  was  sun- 
ning itself  at  that  corner  of  the  boulevard,  which 
has  not  its  equal  in  the  world  at  sunset  on  a  fine 
day,  about  the  hour  for  returning  from  the  Bois. 

*'  Sit  down  here,  my  handsome  youngster,  and 
have  something  to  drink;  it  rejoices  my  eyes  to 
look  at  you." 

Two  long  arms  had  seized  him  and  seated  him 
under  the  awning  of  a  cafe  which  encroached  up- 
on the  sidewalk  with  its  three  rows  of  tables.  He 
made  no  resistance,  flattered  to  hear  the  throng  of 
provincials,  foreigners,  striped  jackets  and  round 
hats,  whispering  curiously  the  name  of  Caoudal. 

The  sculptor,  sitting  at  a  table  in  front  of  a  glass 
of  absinthe,  which  went  well  with  his  military  fig- 
ure and  the  rosette  of  an  officer  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor,  had  beside  him  the  engineer  Dechelette, 
who  had  arrived  the  day  before,  always  the  same, 
sunburned  and  yellow,  his  prominent  cheekbones 
crowding  his  good-natured  Httle  eyes,  his  nostrils 
greedily  sniffing  Paris.  As  soon  as  the  young 
man  was  seated,  Caoudal  pointed  to  him  with 
comic  rage,  — 


Sappho,  41 

"Isn't  that  a  handsome  animal?  To  think  that 
I  was  that  age  once,  and  that  my  hair  curled  like 
that !     Oh  !  youth,  youth  !  " 

*'  Still  the  same,  eh?"  said  Dechelette,  greeting 
his  friend's  tirade  with  a  smile. 

"  Don't  laugh,  my  dear  fellow.  All  that  I  have, 
all  that  I  am,  —  medals,  cross,  the  Institute,  the 
palsy,  —  I  would  give  for  that  hair,  that  sunlike 
complexion." 

Then  he  turned  again  to  Gaussin  in  his  abrupt 
way. 

"And  Sappho,  what  have  you  done  with  her? 
We  never  see  her  now." 

Jean  stared  at  him,  failing  to  understand. 

"Aren't  you  with  her  now?"  And  in  face  of 
his  evident  bewilderment,  Caoudal  added  impa- 
tiently :  ''  Sappho,  you  know  —  Fanny  Legrand  — 
Ville  d'Avray." 

"  Oh  !  that 's  all  over,  a  long  while  ago." 

How  came  that  lie  to  his  lips?  From  a  sort  of 
shame,  of  disgust,  at  hearing  that  name  of  Sappho 
appHed  to  his  mistress ;  the  embarrassment  of  dis- 
cussing her  with  other  men ;  perhaps,  too,  a  desire 
to  learn  things  which  they  would  not  otherwise 
have  told  him. 

"  What 's  that  ?  Sappho  ?  Is  she  still  on  earth  ?  " 
queried  Dechelette  absent-mindedly,  absorbed  by 
the  intoxicating  joy  of  seeing  once  more  the  steps 
of  the  Madeleine,  the  flower-market,  the  long 
line  of  the  boulevards  between  two  rows  of  green 
bouquets. 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember  her  at  your  house 


42  Sappho, 

last  year?  She  was  superb  in  her  fellah's  tunic. 
And  that  autumn  morning  when  I  found  her  break- 
fasting with  this  pretty  boy  at  Langlois',  you'd 
have  said  she  was  a  bride  of  a  fortnight." 

"  How  old  is  she,  anyway?     Since  the  days  when 
I  used  to  know  her — " 

Caoudal  raised  his  head  to  reckon.  "  How  old? 
how  old?  Let  me  see,  she  was  seventeen  in  1853, 
when  she  posed  for  my  figure;  now  it's  '73.  So 
figure  for  yourself."  Suddenly  his  eyes  kindled. 
*' Ah  !  if  you  had  seen  her  twenty  years  ago  —  tall, 
slender,  with  arching  lips  and  a  high  forehead. 
Her  arms  and  shoulders  were  a  little  thin  still,  but 
that  was  all  right  for  the  rough  cast  of  Sappho. 
And  the  woman,  the  mistress  !  —  the  capacity  for 
pleasure  there  was  in  her,  the  fire  in  that  stone, 
that  harpsichord  in  which  not  a  note  was  missing ! 
*  The  whole  lyre !  '  as  La  Gournerie  used  to  say." 

Jean,  very  pale,  asked,  *'  Was  he  her  lover  too?  " 

*'La  Gournerie?  I  should  say  so;  I  suffered 
enough  on  that  account.  Four  years  we  Hved 
together  as  husband  and  wife ;  four  years  I  brooded 
over  her  and  drained  myself  dry  to  gratify  all  her 
whims,  —  singing  teachers,  piano  teachers,  riding 
teachers,  and  God  knows  what.  And  when  I  had 
cut  and  smoothed  and  poHshed  her  into  a  fine 
stone,  after  picking  her  up  out  of  the  gutter  one 
night  in  front  of  the  Bal  Ragache,  that  dandified 
poetaster  came  and  took  her  from  my  house,  from 
the  hospitable  table  at  which  he  sat  every  Sun- 
day !  " 

He  breathed  very  hard,  as  if  to  blow  away  the 


Sappho,  43 

old  love-rancor  which  still  vibrated  in  his  voice; 
then  resumed  more  calmly, — 

"  However,  his  sneaking  conduct  did  him  no 
good.  Their  three  years  together  were  a  perfect 
hell.  That  poet  with  his  wheedling  ways  was 
stingy,  ugly,  a  perfect  maniac.  You  should  have 
seen  how  they  used  to  decorate  each  other !  When 
you  went  to  their  house  you  'd  find  her  with  a 
patch  over  her  eye,  or  his  face  all  marked  with 
claws.  But  the  best  thing  was  when  he  undertook 
to  leave  her.  She  clung  to  him  like  the  itch,  fol- 
lowed him  about,  burst  in  his  door,  and  waited  for 
him,  lying  across  his  door-mat.  One  night  in  mid- 
winter she  stayed  five  hours  in  the  street  outside 
La  Farcy's,  where  the  whole  crowd  was.  A  pitiful 
thing !  But  the  elegiac  poet  remained  implacable, 
and  one  day  he  resorted  to  the  police  to  get  rid  of 
her.  Ah!  he's  a  fine  fellow!  And  as  a  fitting 
conclusion,  a  final  acknowledgment  to  that  lovely 
girl  who  had  given  him  the  best  of  her  youth,  her 
intelligence,  and  her  flesh,  he  emptied  on  her 
head  a  volume  of  spiteful,  filthy  verse,  of  impre- 
cations and  lamentations,  the  Livre  de  V Amour y 
his  best  book." 

Motionless,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  Gaussin 
listened,  drinking  very  slowly  through  a  long 
straw  the  iced  drink  in  front  of  him.  Surely  it 
was  some  poison  that  had  been  poured  into  the 
glass  and  was  freezing  him  from  the  heart  to  the 
vitals. 

He  shivered  despite  the  splendid  weather,  saw 
shadows  going   and  coming   in  a  vague    mist,   a 


44  Sappho, 

watering-cart  standing  in  front  of  the  Madeleine, 
and  carriages  rolling  in  both  directions  over  the 
soft  earth,  as  silently  as  over  a  pavement  of  down. 
There  was  no  sound  in  all  Paris,  nothing  save 
what  was  said  at  that  table.  Now  Dechelette  was 
speaking ;  he  was  pouring  out  the  poison. 

"  What  an  atrocious  thing  such  ruptures  are !  " 
And  his  calm,  mocking  voice  took  on  a  tone  of 
gentleness,  of  infinite  pity.  ''  You  have  lived  to- 
gether, slept  side  by  side,  mingled  your  dreams 
for  years.  You  have  said  everything,  given  every- 
thing to  each  other.  You  have  adopted  each 
other's  habits,  ways  of  acting  and  speaking,  even 
each  other's  features.  You  are  united  from  head 
to  foot.  In  fact,  you  are  husband  and  wife  !  Then 
suddenly  you  tear  yourselves  apart  and  separate. 
How  is  it  done?  How  does  any  one  muster  cour- 
age to  do  it?  For  my  part  I  never  could.  No; 
I  might  be  deceived,  insulted,  besmirched  with 
filth  and  ridicule,  and  if  the  woman  should  weep 
and  say  to  me,  *  Stay !  '  I  would  n't  go.  And 
that 's  why,  when  I  take  one,  I  never  do  it  until 
dark.  No  to-morrow,  as  old  France  used  to  say 
—  or  else  marriage.  That  is  final  and  more 
decent." 

"No  to-morrow  —  no  to-morrow.  You  say  it 
very  glibly.  There  are  women  whom  a  man 
does  n't  keep  just  one  night,  —  the  one  we  're  talk- 
ing about,  for  instance." 

"  I  did  n't  give  her  a  minute's  grace,"  said 
Dechelette,  with  a  placid  smile  which  seemed 
hideous  to  the  poor  lover. 


Sappho.  45 

"  In  that  case  you  were  not  her  style,  or  else  — 
She  's  the  kind  of  a  girl  who  clings  when  she  loves. 
She  has  a  taste  for  domestic  life.  By  the  way, 
she  's  had  poor  luck  in  her  housekeeping.  She  sets 
up  with  Dejoie,  the  novelist ;  he  dies.  She  goes  to 
Ezano,  and  he  marries.  After  him  came  the  hand- 
some Flamant,  the  engraver,  the  ex-model  —  for 
she  has  always  had  a  fancy  for  talent  or  beauty  — 
and  you  know  her  horrible  adventure  —  " 

"What  adventure?"  asked  Gaussin,  in  a  chok- 
ing voice ;  and  he  began  again  upon  his  straw  as 
he  listened  to  the  love  drama  which  stirred  Paris 
to  its  depths  a  few  years  ago. 

The  engraver  was  poor,  mad  over  the  woman ; 
and  for  fear  of  being  abandoned  by  her,  he  made 
counterfeit  bank-notes  in  order  to  maintain  her 
in  luxury.  Discovered  almost  immediately  and 
arrested  with  his  mistress,  he  was  sentenced  to  ten 
years'  penal  servitude,  while  she  escaped  with 
six  months'  detention  at  Saint-Lazare,  her  inno- 
cence being  established. 

And  Caoudal  reminded  D6chelette  —  who  had 
followed  the  prosecution  —  how  pretty  she  was  in 
her  little  Saint-Lazare  cap,  and  plucky  too,  not 
whimpering,  and  loyal  to  her  man  to  the  end.  And 
her  reply  to  that  old  greenhorn  of  a  judge,  and  the 
kiss  she  threw  to  Flamant  over  the  gendarmes* 
chapeaux,  calling  to  him  in  a  voice  to  move  the 
very  stones :  *'  Don't  be  discouraged,  m'  ami.  The 
happy  days  will  return,  we  will  love  each  other 
still !  "  That  experience  had  disgusted  her  a  little 
with  housekeeping,  all  the  same. 


46  Sappho. 

"  After  that,  starting  out  in  chic  society,  she 
took  lovers  by  the  month  or  week,  and  never  an 
artist.  Oh !  she 's  a  Httle  afraid  of  artists.  I 
beheve  I  was  the  only  one  that  she  continued  to 
see.  From  time  to  time  she  used  to  come  and 
smoke  a  cigarette  at  the  studio.  Then  I  passed 
months  without  hearing  her  name  mentioned,  until 
the  day  I  found  her  breakfasting  with  this  hand- 
some child  and  eating  grapes  out  of  his  mouth. 
I  said  to  myself,  *  Ah !  my  Sappho  is  at  her  old 
tricks.' " 

Jean  could  listen  to  no  more.  He  felt  as  if  he 
were  dying  with  all  the  poison  he  had  absorbed. 
The  shivering  of  a  moment  before  was  succeeded 
by  a  burning  heat  which  scorched  his  breast,  as- 
cended to  his  buzzing  head,  which  seemed  on  the 
point  of  bursting  like  white-hot  sheet-iron.  He 
crossed  the  street,  staggering  among  the  wheels. 
Drivers  shouted  at  him.  What  was  the  matter  with 
them,  the  imbeciles? 

As  he  passed  the  Madeleine  flower-market,  he 
was  annoyed  by  the  odor  of  heliotrope,  his  mis- 
tress's favorite  perfume.  He  quickened  his  pace 
to  escape  it,  and  thought  aloud,  in  a  heartrending 
frenzy:  "  My  mistress  ! — oh!  yes,  a  fine  mess  of 
filth.  Sappho,  Sappho !  To  think  that  I  have 
lived  a  year  with  such  a  creature  !  "  He  repeated 
the  name  fiercely,  remembering  that  he  had  seen 
in  the  newspapers,  among  other  sobriquets  of 
harlots,  in  the  grotesque  Almanach  de  Gotha  of 
gallantry,  Sappho,  Cora,  Caro,  Phryne,  Jeanne  de 
Poitiers,  the  Seal. 


Sappho.  47 

And  with  the  six  letters  of  her  abominable  name 
that  woman's  whole  life  passed  before  his  eyes  like 
refuse  in  a  sewer.  —  Caoudal's  studio,  the  fracases 
at  La  Gournerie's,  the  sentry  duty  at  night  in  front 
of  brothels  or  on  the  poet's  door-mat.  Then  the 
handsome  engraver,  the  counterfeiting,  the  assizes, 
and  the  little  convict's  cap  that  was  so  becoming  to 
her,  and  the  kiss  she  threw  to  her  counterfeiter: 
"Don't  be  discouraged,  m' ami.''  M'  ami!  the 
same  pet  name,  the  same  caress  as  for  him  !  What 
a  disgrace  !  Ah  !  but  he  proposed  to  make  a  clean 
sweep  of  those  abominations.  And  still  that  smell 
of  heliotrope  pursued  him  through  a  twilight  of 
the  same  pale  lilac  as  the  tiny  flower. 

Suddenly  he  noticed  that  he  was  still  pacing  the 
market  like  the  deck  of  a  ship.  He  hurried  away 
to  Rue  d'Amsterdam  without  pausing  for  breath, 
firmly  determined  to  drive  that  woman  out  of 
doors,  to  throw  her  down  the  stairs  without  ex- 
planation, hurling  her  insulting  name  at  her  back. 
At  the  door  he  hesitated,  reflected,  walked  a  few 
steps  farther  on.  She  would  cry  out,  sob,  howl 
through  the  house  her  whole  sidewalk  vocabulary, 
as  she  did  once  before  on  Rue  de  1' Arcade. 

Should  he  write  to  her  ?  —  yes,  that  was  the  idea ; 
it  was  much  better  to  write,  to  settle  her  account  in 
four  words,  very  savage  words.  He  entered  an 
English  tavern,  deserted  and  dismal  under  the  gas 
which  was  just  being  lighted,  seated  himself  at  a 
sticky  table  near  the  only  customer,  a  girl  with  a 
death's  head,  who  was  eating  smoked  salmon,  with- 
out drinking.     He  ordered  a  pint  of  ale,  did  not 


48  Sappho, 

touch  it,  and  began  a  letter.  But  too  many  words 
rushed  into  his  head,  struggHng  to  come  out  all  at 
once,  and  the  thick,  clotted  ink  would  write  them 
as  slowly  as  it  chose. 

He  tore  up  two  or  three  beginnings,  and  was 
going  away  at  last  without  writing,  when  a  full, 
greedy  mouth  at  his  elbow  inquired  timidly: 
"Aren't  you  drinking?  May  I?"  He  made  an 
affirmative  sign.  The  girl  pounced  upon  the  pew- 
ter, and  emptied  it  with  a  fierce  gulp  which  dis- 
closed the  poverty  of  the  wretched  creature,  having 
just  enough  in  her  pocket  to  satisfy  her  hunger, 
but  not  to  water  it  with  a  little  beer.  A  feehng  of 
compassion  stole  over  him  and  appeased  him,  en- 
lightened him  suddenly  as  to  the  miseries  of  a 
woman's  life;  and  he  began  to  reflect  upon  and 
judge  his  misfortune  more  humanely. 

After  all,  she  had  not  lied  to  him ;  and  if  he 
knew  nothing  of  her  life,  it  was  simply  because 
he  had  never  cared  about  it.  With  what  could  he 
reproach  her?  Her  time  at  Saint-Lazare ?  But 
she  had  been  acquitted,  and  almost  borne  in 
triumph  when  she  was  discharged.  What  else 
was  there?  Other  men  before  him?  Did  he  not 
know  it?  What  reason  was  it  for  being  more 
disgusted  with  her,  that  the  names  of  her  lovers 
were  well  known,  famous,  that  he  might  meet 
them,  talk  with  them,  see  their  pictures  in  the 
shop-windows?  Should  he  attribute  to  her  as  a 
crime  her  having  preferred  such  men? 

And  in  the  depths  of  his  being  there  sprang  to 
life  an  unworthy,  unavowable  pride  in  sharing  her 


Sappho.  49 

with  those  great  artists,  in  saying  to  himself  that 
they  thought  her  beautiful.  At  his  age  one  is  never 
sure,  one  does  not  know.  One  loves  woman  and 
love ;  but  eyes  and  experience  are  lacking,  and  the 
young  lover  who  shows  you  his  mistress's  portrait 
craves  a  glance,  a  word  of  approbation  to  reassure 
him.  Sappho's  face  seemed  to  him  embellished, 
surrounded  with  a  halo,  since  he  knew  that  she 
had  been  sung  by  La  Gournerie,  immortalized  in 
marble  and  bronze  by  Caoudal. 

But,  his  fury  suddenly  resuming  possession  of 
him,  he  left  the  bench  on  the  outer  boulevard 
upon  which  he  had  flung  himself  in  his  meditation, 
amid  the  cries  of  children  and  the  gossip  of  work- 
men's wives  in  the  dusty  June  evening;  and  he 
began  to  walk  again,  to  talk  aloud,  angrily.  Very 
pretty  the  bronze  cast  of  Sappho, —  bronze  made 
for  sale,  exhibited  everywhere,  as  trite  as  a  barrel- 
organ  tune,  as  that  name  Sappho,  which,  by  dint 
of  being  bandied  about  for  centuries,  has  become 
incrusted  with  obscene  legends  concerning  her 
primitive  charm,  and  from  being  the  name  of  a 
goddess  has  become  the  label  of  a  disease.  Great 
God  !   how  sickening  it  all  was  ! 

He  gave  vent  thus,  calm  and  furious  by  turns,  to 
that  maelstrom  of  opposing  ideas  and  sentiments. 
The  boulevard  became  darker  and  more  deserted. 
There  was  a  stale,  acrid  odor  in  the  hot  air,  and 
he  recognized  the  gateway  of  the  great  cemetery 
whither  he  had  come  the  preceding  year  with  all 
the  youth  of  the  quarter  to  attend  the  dedication 
of  a  bust  by  Caoudal  on  the  tomb  of  Dejoie,  the 
.      4 


50  Sappho, 

novelist  of  the  Latin  Quarter  and  author  of  Cen- 
derinette.  Dejoie,  Caoudal !  How  strangely  those 
names  sounded  in  his  ears  since  two  hours  ago ! 
And  how  false  and  mournful  the  story  of  the  girl 
student  and  her  little  household  seemed  to  him, 
now  that  he  knew  the  pitiful  secret  beneath  it,  and 
had  learned  from  Dechelette  the  horrible  nickname 
given  to  those  sidewalk  marriages  ! 

The  dark  shadows,  made  darker  by  the  prox- 
imity of  death,  terrified  him.  He  retraced  his 
steps,  brushing  against  blouses  that  prowled  about 
as  stealthy  and  silent  as  birds  of  night,  and  soiled 
skirts  loitering  at  the  doors  of  brothels  whose  dirty 
windows  were  illuminated  by  broad  shafts  of  light 
as  from  a  magic  lantern,  in  which  couples  passed  to 
and  fro  and  embraced.  What  time  was  it?  He  felt 
thoroughly  exhausted,  like  a  raw  recruit  at  the  end 
of  a  day's  march;  and  of  his  benumbing  pain, 
which  had  descended  into  his  legs,  naught  re- 
mained but  extreme  weariness.  Oh  !  to  go  to  bed, 
to  sleep.  Then,  when  he  awoke,  he  would  say 
to  the  woman,  coldly,  without  anger :  "  Come  —  I 
know  who  you  are.  It  is  n't  your  fault  nor  mine ; 
but  we  cannot  live  together  any  longer.  Let  us 
part."  And  in  order  to  avoid  her  persecution, 
he  would  go  and  embrace  his  mother  and  sisters, 
throw  off  in  the  Rhone  breezes,  in  the  free  and 
life-giving  mistral,  the  defilement  and  the  terror 
of  his  ghastly  dream. 

She  had  gone  to  bed,  tired  of  waiting,  and  was 
sleeping  in  the  bright  light  of  the  lamp,  a  book 


Sappho,  5 1 

open  on  the  sheet  in  front  of  her.  His  entrance 
did  not  awaken  her ;  and  he  stood  beside  the  bed, 
gazing  at  her  curiously  as  if  she  were  a  new  woman, 
a  stranger  whom  he  had  found  there. 

Lovely,  oh  !  she  was  lovely ;  arms,  throat,  shoul- 
ders of  a  delicate  amber,  well  formed,  without  spot 
or  blemish.  But  on  those  reddened  eyelids  —  per- 
haps it  was  the  novel  she  was  reading,  perhaps  the 
anxiety,  the  suspense  —  on  those  features  relaxed 
in  repose  and  no  longer  sustained  by  the  fierce 
desire  of  the  woman  who  is  resolved  to  be  loved, 
what  weariness,  what  confessions !  Her  age,  her 
history,  her  excesses,  her  caprices,  her  many  mar- 
riages, and  Saint-Lazare,  the  blows,  the  tears, 
the  terror,  all  were  visible,  clearly  displayed ;  and 
the  violet  rings  of  dissipation  and  sleepless  nights, 
and  the  curl  of  disgust  on  the  drooping  lower  lip, 
as  worn  and  fatigued  as  the  curbstone  of  a  well  to 
which  the  whole  village  goes  to  drink,  and  the 
inchoate  puffing  which  prepares  the  flesh  for  the 
wrinkles   of  old  age. 

That  treachery  of  sleep,  the  silence  that  en- 
veloped the  whole  scene,  was  grand  and  awful ;  it 
was  like  a  battlefield  at  night,  with  all  the  horrors 
that  one  sees  and  those  that  one  divines  from  the 
vague  movements  of  the  shadows. 

And  suddenly  the  poor  child  was  seized  with  an 
intense,  a  sufibcating  desire  to  weep. 


52  Sappho, 


IV. 


They  had  finished  dinner,  the  windows  were 
open,  and  the  prolonged  whisthng  of  the  swal- 
lows hailed  the  fading  light.  Jean  was  not  speak- 
ing, but  he  was  on  the  point  of  speaking,  and  of 
saying  the  same  cruel  things  which  had  haunted 
him  and  with  which  he  had  tormented  Fanny  since 
his  meeting  with  Caoudal.  She,  noticing  his  down- 
cast eyes  and  the  air  of  feigned  indifference  with 
which  he  approached  new  subjects,  divined  his 
purpose  and  anticipated  it. 

'*  Come,  I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say  to 
me ;  spare  us  both,  I  beg  you ;  one  gets  exhausted 
at  last.  As  long  as  all  that  is  dead  and  gone,  as 
I  love  only  you,  as  you  are  the  only  man  in  the 
world  to  me  — " 

"  If  all  that  past  were  dead  and  gone,  as  you 
say,"  and  he  looked  into  the  depths  of  her  lovely 
eyes,  of  a  quivering  gray  that  changed  with  every 
new  impression,  "■  you  would  not  keep  the  things 
that  remind  you  of  it;  yes,  up  there  in  the 
cupboard." 

The  gray  became  a  velvety  black. 

"You  know,  then?" 

All  that  medley  of  love  letters,  portraits,  those 
glorious  archives  of  gallantry  saved  from  so  many 


Sappho,  53 

catastrophes,  she  must  at  last  make  up  her  mind 
to  destroy ! 

"  You  will  at  least  believe  me  afterward  ?  " 

And  as  he  replied  with  an  incredulous  smile  of 
suspicion,  she  ran  to  fetch  the  lacquer  casket  with 
the  carved  iron  work,  lying  among  the  piles  of 
fine"  Hnen,  which  had  puzzled  her  lover  so  for 
some  days, 

"  Burn  them ;  tear  them  up ;  they  are  yours." 

But  he  did  not  hurry  to  turn  the  httle  key,  gaz- 
ing at  the  cherry-trees  with  pink  pearl  fruit,  and 
the  flying  storks  carved  on  the  lid,  which  he  at 
last  broke  open  without  ceremony.  Colored  paper 
of  all  sizes  and  covered  with  all  kinds  of  writing, 
with  designs  in  gilt  at  the  top,  old  yellow  letters 
broken  at  the  folds,  pencil  scrawls  on  leaves  from 
note-books,  visiting-cards  in  heaps,  with  no  sem- 
blance of  order,  as  in  a  drawer  often  searched  and 
tossed  about,  into  which  he  himself  now  plunged 
his  trembling  hands. 

*'  Give  them  to  me.  I  will  burn  them  before 
your  eyes." 

She  spoke  feverishly,  crouching  before  the  fire- 
place, a  Hghted  candle  on  the  floor  by  her  side. 

*'  Give  them  to  me." 

But  he  replied,  "No  —  wait,"  and  added  in  a 
lower  tone,  as  if  ashamed,  "  I  would  like  to  read 
them." 

"What  for?  You  will  only  make  yourself  still 
more  unhappy." 

She  thought  solely  of  his  suffering,  and  not  of 
the   indelicacy  of  thus  laying  bare  the  secrets   of 


54  Sappho, 

passion,  the  confessions  made  on  the  pillow  of  all 
those  men  who  had  loved  her ;  and  drawing  near 
to  him,  still  on  her  knees,  she  read  with  him, 
watching  him  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

Ten  pages,  signed  La  Gournerie,  1861,  in  a  long, 
feline  handwriting,  in  which  the  poet,  who  had 
been  sent  to  Algeria  to  prepare  an  official  and  at 
the  same  time  poetical  account  of  the  journey  of 
the  emperor  and  empress,  gave  his  mistress  a 
dazzling  description  of  the  festivities. 

Algiers,  overflowing  with  swarming  thousands, 
a  genuine  Bagdad  of  the  Thousand  and  One 
Nights;  all  Africa  heaped  up  around  the  city, 
beating  at  its  gates  as  if  it  would  break  them  down, 
like  a  simoom.  Caravans  of  negroes  and  camels 
laden  with  gum,  tents  of  skins,  an  odor  of  human 
musk  hovering  over  all  that  monkeyish  multitude, 
camping  on  the  seashore,  dancing  at  night  around 
great  fires,  making  way  respectfully  every  morn- 
ing for  the  chiefs  from  the  South,  who  arrived, 
like  Magian  kings,  with  oriental  pomp,  discordant 
music,  reed  flutes,  hoarse  little  drums,  the  goum  ^ 
surrounding  the  tri-colored  standard  of  the  Prophet ; 
and  behind,  led  by  negroes,  the  horses  intended  as 
a  present  to  the  Emberour,  caparisoned  in  silk  and 
silver,  with  a  jingling  of  bells  and  chains  at  every 
step. 

The  poet's  genius  made  the  scene  very  lifelike 
and  vivid ;  the  words  gleamed  on  the  page,  like  un- 

1  An  Arabian  word,  used  in  connection  with  the  French  army 
in  Algiers  to  denote  the  contingent  of  troops  furnished  by  each 
native  tribe. 


Sappho,  55 

mounted  stones  which  jewellers  examine  on  paper. 
Truly  the  woman  at  whose  feet  such  treasures  were 
cast  might  well  be  proud.  Surely  he  must  have 
loved  her,  for,  notwithstanding  the  interest  aroused 
by  the  singularity  of  the  festivities,  the  poet  thought 
only  of  her,  was  dying  for  a  sight  of  her. 

"  Oh !  last  night  I  was  with  you  on  the  great 
divan  at  Rue  de  I'Arcade.  You  were  wild  with 
ecstasy  under  my  caresses ;  then  I  abruptly  awoke 
rolled  in  a  rug  on  my  terrace  under  the  starry  sky. 
The  cry  of  the  muezzin  ascended  from  a  neighbor- 
ing minaret,  in  a  clear  and  limpid  outpouring  of 
sounds,  voluptuous  rather  than  prayerful,  and  it 
seemed  to  be  your  voice  that  I  heard  as  I  emerged 
from  my  dream." 

What  evil  power  impelled  him  to  continue  his 
reading  despite  the  horrible  jealousy  that  whitened 
his  lips,  contracted  his  hands?  Gently,  coaxingly, 
Fanny  tried  to  take  the  letter  from  him ;  but  he 
read  it  to  the  end,  and  after  it  another,  then  an- 
other, letting  them  fall  one  by  one  with  a  gesture 
of  contempt  and  indifference,  without  looking  at 
the  flame  in  the  fireplace  feeding  on  the  great 
poet's  impassioned  lyrical  effusions.  And  some- 
times, in  the  overflow  of  that  passion,  exaggerated 
by  the  tropical  temperature,  the  lover's  poetic 
flights  were  sullied  by  some  vile  mess-room  ob- 
scenity which  would  have  surprised  and  scandal- 
ized the  fair  readers  of  the  Livre  de  VAmouVy 
whose  spirituality  was  as  refined  and  spotless  as 
the  Jungfrau's  silvery  peak. 

To  what  depths  of  baseness  the  heart  will  stoop  ! 


56  Sappho, 

Jean  dwelt  longest  upon  those  passages,  those  blots 
upon  the  page,  with  no  suspicion  of  the  nervous 
spasm  that  distorted  his  features  each  time.  He 
even  had  the  courage  to  emit  a  sneering  laugh  at 
this  postscript,  following  a  vivid  description  of  a 
fete  at  Aissaouas :  "  I  have  read  my  letter  over ; 
there  are  some  things  in  it  that  really  are  not  bad ; 
put  it  aside  for  me,  I  may  be  able  to  make  some 
use  of  it." 

*'  A  gentleman  who  threw  away  no  chances !  " 
he  exclaimed  as  he  passed  to  another  letter  in  the 
same  hand,  wherein,  in  the  frigid  tone  of  a  man  of 
business,  La  Gournerie  demanded  the  return  of  a 
collection  of  Arabian  ballads  and  a  pair  of  Turk- 
ish slippers  made  of  rice-straw.  That  was  the 
liquidation  of  their  haison.  Ah !  he  had  known 
how  to  leave  her,  he  was  clever,  that  fellow ! 

And  Jean,  without  pausing,  continued  to  drain 
that  bog,  from  which  a  hot,  unhealthy  vapor  arose. 
When  it  grew  dark  he  placed  the  candle  on  a  table 
and  ran  through  a  multitude  of  short  notes,  almost 
illegible,  as  if  written  with  a  bodkin  by  fingers 
which  were  too  large  for  it,  and  which,  every 
moment  or  two,  in  an  outburst  of  desire  or  of 
anger,  gashed  and  tore  the  paper.  The  early 
days  of  her  liaison  with  Caoudal,  assignations, 
suppers,  parties  in  the  country;  and  altercations, 
importunate  repentance,  shrieks,  base,  degrading 
billingsgate,  abruptly  interlarded  with  amusing, 
laughable  sallies,  sobbing  reproaches,  a  revelation 
of  all  the  great  artist's  weakness  when  face  to  face 
with  separation  and  desertion. 


Sappho,  57 

The  fire  seized  upon  it  and  licked  it  with  long 
red  tongues  in  which  the  flesh  and  blood  and  tears 
of  a  man  of  genius  smoked  and  crackled  ;  but  what 
mattered  that  to  Fanny,  whose  whole  heart  now 
belonged  to  the  young  lover  whom  she  was  watch- 
ing, whose  burning  fever  scorched  her  through 
their  clothing?  He  had  found  a  pen  portrait 
signed  Gavarni,  with  this  dedication :  "  To  my 
friend  Fanny  Legrand,  in  an  inn  at  Dampierre, 
one  rainy  day."  An  intelligent,  sorrowful  face, 
with  hollow  eyes,  an  expression  of  bitterness  and 
despair. 

*' Who  is  this?" 

*' Andre  Dejoie.  I  prized  it  because  of  the 
signature." 

He  said,  **  Keep  it,  I  have  no  objection ;  "  but 
in  such  a  constrained,  unhappy  tone  that  she  took 
the  sketch,  tore  it  in  pieces,  and  threw  it  into  the 
fire,  while  he  plunged  into  the  novelist's  corre- 
spondence, a  heartrending  succession  of  letters, 
dated  at  winter  seashore  resorts,  at  watering-places, 
in  which  the  writer,  sent  thither  for  his  health, 
cried  out  in  despair  at  his  mental  and  physical 
distress,  cudgelling  his  brain  to  find  an  idea  at 
that  distance  from  Paris,  and  mingled  with  re- 
quests for  potions  and  prescriptions,  with  anxie- 
ties concerning  money  or  business,  advices  of  the 
forwarding  of  proofs,  of  renewals  of  notes,  and 
always  the  same  cry  of  despair  and  adoration 
addressed  to  his  Sappho's  lovely  body,  which  was 
prohibited  by  his  physicians. 

**  In  God's  name,  what  was  the  matter  with  them 


58  Sappho, 

all  that  they  were  mad  after  you  like  that?"  mut- 
tered Jean,  distracted  but  outspoken. 

To  him  that  was  the  only  thought  suggested  by 
those  despairing  letters,  avowing  the  utter  up- 
heaval of  one  of  those  glorious  existences  which 
young  men  envy  and  of  which  romantic  women 
dream.  What  was  the  matter  with  them  all? 
What  did  she  give  them  to  drink?  He  experi- 
enced the  horrible  agony  of  a  man  who,  being 
bound  and  helpless,  should  see  the  woman  he 
loved  outraged  before  his  eyes ;  and  yet  he  could 
not  make  up  his  mind  to  empty  the  box  at  one 
stroke,  with  his  eyes  closed. 

Now  it  w^as  the  turn  of  the  engraver,  who,  wretch- 
edly poor  and  obscure  as  he  was,  with  no  other 
celebrity  than  that  afforded  by  the  Gazette  des 
Tribtmaux,  owed  his  place  in  the  reliquary  solely 
to  the  great  love  she  had  had  for  him.  Very  de- 
grading were  those  letters  from  Mazas,  and  stupid, 
clumsy,  sentimental,  like  those  of  a  soldier  to  his 
country  sweetheart.  But  beneath  the  romantic 
commonplaces  one  was  conscious  of  an  accent 
of  sincerity  in  his  passion,  a  respect  for  the 
woman,  a  forgetfulness  of  self  which  distinguished 
him  from  the  others ;  for  instance,  when  he  asked 
Fanny's  pardon  for  the  crime  of  loving  her  too 
dearly,  or  when,  from  the  waiting-room  at  the 
Palais  de  Justice,  immediately  after  his  conviction, 
he  told  his  mistress  of  his  joy  to  know  that  she  was 
acquitted  and  free.  He  complained  of  nothing. 
Thanks  to  her,  he  had  had  two  years  of  such  per- 
fect, profound  happiness  with  her  that  the  memory 


Sappho,  59 

of  it  would  suffice  to  fill  his  life  with  joy,  to  miti- 
gate the  horror  of  his  lot ;  and  he  ended  by  asking 
a  favor, — 

"  You  know  that  I  have  a  child  in  the  provinces 
whose  mother  died  a  long  while  ago ;  he  lives  with 
an  old  aunt,  in  such  an  out-of-the-way  corner  that 
they  will  never  hear  of  my  trouble.  I  have  sent 
them  what  money  I  had  left,  saying  that  I  was  go- 
ing on  a  long  journey,  and  I  rely  on  you,  my  dear 
Nini,  to  inquire  about  the  poor  little  fellow  from 
time  to  time  and  let  me  know  about  him." 

Fanny's  interest  was  demonstrated  by  another 
letter,  of  quite  recent  date,  hardly  six  months  old : 
"  Oh  !  you  were  good  to  come.  How  lovely  you 
were  !  How  sweet  you  smelt  beside  my  convict's 
jacket,  which  made  me  so  ashamed  — " 

"So  you  have  continued  to  see  him?"  de- 
manded Jean  fiercely,  interrupting  his  reading. 

"  At  long  intervals,  as  an  act  of  charity." 

"  Even  since  we  have  been  together?  " 

"  Yes,  once,  only  once,  in  the  visitors'  room ; 
nobody  can  see  them  anywhere  else." 

"  Ah  !  you  're  a  fine  girl !  " 

The  thought  that,  notwithstanding  their  liaison, 
she  had  visited  that  counterfeiter,  exasperated  him 
more  than  all  the  rest.  He  was  too  proud  to 
say  so. 

But  a  package  of  letters,  the  last,  tied  with  a 
blue  ribbon  and  written  in  a  fine,  sloping  hand,  a 
woman's  hand,  unchained  all  his  wrath. 

"I  change  my  tunic  after  the  chariot  race  — 
come  to  my  dcessing-room." 


6o  Sappho. 

"  No,  no  —  don't  read  that." 

She  threw  herself  upon  him,  snatched  away  the 
whole  package  and  threw  it  into  the  fire ;  nor  did 
he  understand  at  first,  even  when  he  saw  her  at 
his  knees,  her  face  flushed  by  the  reflection  of  the 
fire  and  the  shame  of  her  confession. 

''  I  was  young :  it  was  Caoudal,  the  great  fool. 
I  did  what  he  wanted." 

Not  till  then  did  he  understand,  and  he  turned 
pale  as  death. 

"Oh!  yes — Sappho  — '  the  whole  lyre.' "  And 
pushing  her  away  with  his  foot,  like  an  unclean 
beast,  he  added  :  *'  Leave  me  !  Don't  touch  me  ! 
You  make  me  sick !  " 

Her  shriek  was  drowned  by  a  terrible  peal  of 
thunder,  very  near  and  prolonged,  at  the  same 
instant  that  a  vivid  flash  illumined  the  room.  Fire  ! 
She  sprang  to  her  feet  in  terror,  instinctively  seized 
the  carafe  that  stood  on  the  table  and  emptied  it 
on  the  mass  of  papers  which  had  set  fire  to  the 
winter's  soot ;  then  the  watering-pot  and  the  pitch- 
ers ;  and  seeing  that  she  was  helpless,  that  the 
flames  were  shooting  out  into  the  room,  she  ran 
to  the  balcony,  crying,  ''  Fire  !  fire  !  " 

The  Hettemas  arrived  first,  then  the  concierge 
and  the  police. 

"  Lower  the  fire-board  !  "  they  cried ;  "  go  up 
on  the  roof!     Water  !  water  !     No,  a  blanket ! 

They  gazed  in  dismay  at  their  invaded,  be- 
draggled home;  and  when  the  alarm  was  at  an 
end,  and  the  fire  extinguished,  when  the  black 
crowd  under  the  gas-lights  in  the  street  below  had 


Sappho.  6 1 

dispersed,  and  their  neighbors  had  returned  to 
their  own  apartment  with  their  minds  at  ease,  the 
two  lovers,  left  amid  that  chaos  of  water,  muddy- 
soot,  overturned,  drenched  furniture,  felt  sick  at 
heart  and  cowardly,  without  strength  to  renew 
their  quarrel  or  to  put  the  room  in  order.  Some- 
thing ominous  and  degrading  had  entered  their 
hfe ;  and  that  night,  forgetting  their  former  repug- 
nance, they  slept  at  the  lodging-house. 

Fanny's  sacrifice  was  destined  to  be  of  no  avail. 
Of  those  burned,  vanished  letters,  whole  passages 
which  he  knew  by  heart  haunted  the  lover's  mem- 
ory, rose  to  his  cheeks  in  waves  of  blood,  like  cer- 
tain passages  in  unclean  books.  And  those  former 
lovers  of  his  mistress  were  almost  all  famous  men. 
The  dead  survived;  the  portraits  and  names  of 
the  living  were  seen  everywhere;  people  talked 
of  them  before  him,  and  every  time  he  had  a  feel- 
ing of  oppression  as  of  a  family  tie  painfully 
severed. 

As  his  trouble  sharpened  his  wits  and  his  eyes, 
he  soon  began  to  detect  in  Fanny  the  marks  of 
early  influences,  and  the  expressions,  the  ideas, 
the  habits  which  she  had  retained.  That  fashion 
of  putting  out  the  thumb  as  if  she  were  shaping, 
moulding  the  object  of  which  she  was  speaking, 
with  a  "  You  can  see  it  from  here,"  belonged  to 
the  sculptor.  From  Dejoie  she  had  borrowed  the 
mania  for  long  words,  and  the  popular  ballads  of 
which  he  had  published  a  collection  famous  in 
every  corner  of  France;   from  La  Gourncrie,  his 


62  Sappho, 

haughty,  contemptuous  tone  and  his  severe  judg- 
ments concerning  modern  literature. 

She  had  assimilated  it  all,  heaping  incongruity 
upon  incongruity,  by  the  same  phenomenon  of 
stratification  which  makes  it  possible  to  ascertain 
the  age  and  revolutions  of  the  earth  at  its  different 
geological  periods ;  and  perhaps  she  was  not  so 
intelligent  as  she  had  seemed  to  him  at  first.  But 
intelligence  was  of  small  consequence ;  though  she 
had  been  the  stupidest  of  women,  vulgar,  and  ten 
years  older  than  she  really  was,  she  would  have 
held  him  by  the  power  of  her  past,  by  that  base 
jealousy  which  gnawed  his  vitals ;  and  he  no  longer 
imposed  silence  upon  its  irritation  or  its  rancorous, 
hatred,  but  burst  out  on  every  occasion  against 
one  or  the  other  of  her  lovers. 

There  was  no  sale  for  Dejoie's  novels;  any  one 
of  them  could  be  bought  on  the  quay  for  twenty- 
five  centimes.  And  to  think  of  that  old  fool  of  a 
Caoudal  persisting  in  making  love  at  his  age ! 
"  He  has  n't  any  teeth,  you  know ;  I  watched  him 
at  that  breakfast  at  Ville  d'Avray.  He  eats  in  the 
front  of  his  mouth,  like  a  goat."  His  talent  was 
all  gone  too.  What  a  dead  failure  his  Female 
Faun  was  at  the  last  Salon  !  ''  It  was  no  good." 
That  **  it  was  no  good,"  was  an  expression  which 
he  got  from  her,  and  which  she  herself  retained 
from  her  intimacy  with  the  sculptor.  When  he 
attacked  in  that  way  one  of  his  past  rivals,  Fanny 
chimed  in  with  him ;  and  you  should  have  heard 
that  youngster,  ignorant  of  art,  of  life,  of  every- 
thing, and  that  superficial   girl,  who  had   rubbed 


Sappho,  63 

off  a  little  wit  in  her  contact  with  those  famous 
artists,  pass  judgment  on  them  from  a  superior 
level,  and  condemn  them  oracularly. 

But  Gaussin's  special  antipathy  was  Flamant  the 
engraver.  Of  him  he  knew  nothing  save  that  he 
was  handsome,  as  fair  of  complexion  as  himself, 
that  she  called  him  "  m'  ami!'  that  she  went  to 
see  him  in  prison,  and  that,  when  he  attacked  him 
as  he  did  the  others,  calling  him  the  "  Sentimental 
Convict,"  or  the  "  Pretty  Recluse,"  Fanny  turned 
her  face  away  without  a  word.  Erelong  he  ac- 
cused his  mistress  of  retaining  a  fond  feeling  for 
that  brigand,  and  she  was  forced  to  explain  her- 
self, gently  but  with  decision. 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  no  longer  love 
him,  Jean,  since  I  love  you.  I  don't  go  there  now, 
I  don't  answer  his  letters ;  but  you  will  never  make 
me  speak  ill  of  the  man  who  loved  me  to  madness, 
to  crime."  At  that  frank  avowal,  voicing  the  best 
sentiment  that  she  possessed,  Jean  did  not  protest, 
but  he  was  devoured  by  a  jealous  hatred,  sharp- 
ened by  distrust,  which  led  him  to  return  some- 
times to  Rue  d'Amsterdam  unexpectedly  at 
midday.  "  Suppose  she  had  gone  to  see  him !  " 
He  always  found  her  at  home,  sitting  idle  in 
their  little  apartment,  like  an  Oriental,  or  else  at 
the  piano  giving  a  lesson  in  singing  to  their  stout 
neighbor,  Madame  Hettema.  They  had  formed 
an  intimacy  since  the  night  of  the  fire  with  those 
good  people,  placid  and  plethoric  souls  who  lived 
in  a  perpetual  current  of  fresh  air,  with  doors  and 
windows  open. 


64  Sappho, 

The  husband,  a  draughtsman  at  the  Artillery 
Museum,  brought  his  work  home  with  him,  and 
every  evening  in  the  week  and  all  day  Sunday  he 
could  be  seen  leaning  over  his  great  table,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  puffing  and  perspiring,  waving  his 
hands  to  make  the  air  circulate,  with  his  beard 
almost  to  his  eyes.  His  stout  wife,  sitting  beside 
him  in  a  dressing-sack,  also  melted  with  the  heat, 
although  she  never  did  anything ;  and  at  intervals 
they  would  strike  up  one  of  their  favorite  duets  to 
cool  their  blood. 

The  two  households  were  soon  on  an  intimate 
footing.  About  ten  in  the  morning  Hettema's 
loud  voice  would  be  heard  at  the  door :  **  Are 
you  there,  Gaussin?"  And  as  their  departments 
lay  in  the  same  direction,  they  kept  each  other 
company.  The  draughtsman  —  a  heavy,  vulgar 
creature,  several  rungs  lower  on  the  social  ladder 
than  his  young  companion  —  said  but  little,  talked 
as  thick  as  if  he  had  as  much  beard  in  his  mouth 
as  on  his  cheeks;  but  you  felt  that  he  was  an 
honest  fellow,  and  Jean's  moral  disorganization 
needed  just  such  an  association.  He  clung  to  it 
especially  because  of  his  mistress,  who  was  living 
in  a  solitude  peopled  with  memories  and  regrets, 
more  dangerous,  perhaps,  than  the  connections  she 
had  voluntarily  renounced,  and  who  found  in  Ma- 
dame Hettema,  constantly  engrossed  with  her 
man's  welfare,  with  the  toothsome  surprise  she 
was  preparing  for  his  dinner,  and  with  the  new  air 
she  would  sing  to  him  at  dessert,  a  welcome  and 
wholesome  acquaintance. 


Sappho,  65 

But  when  the  friendship  proceeded  so  far  as  an 
exchange  of  invitations,  he  had  scruples.  Those 
people  doubtless  believed  that  they  were  married, 
his  conscience  refused  to  prolong  the  deception, 
and  he  told  Fanny  to  tell  her  friend,  so  that  there 
might  be  no  misunderstanding.  That  made  her 
laugh  heartily.  Poor  b^be!  no  one  was  ever  so 
innocent  as  he.  **  Why,  they  have  never  for  one 
moment  believed  that  we  were  married.  And 
little  they  care  about  it !  If  you  knew  where  he 
went  to  get  his  wife.  All  that  I  ever  did  was 
worthy  of  Saint-Jean  in  comparison.  He  married 
her  only  so  that  he  might  have  her  all  to  himself, 
and  the  past  troubles  him  very  little,  you  see." 

He  could  not  believe  it.  An  ex-prostitute,  that 
good  old  soul,  with  the  bright  eyes,  the  childlike 
smile  on  her  soft,  fat  face,  the  drawling  provincial- 
isms, for  whom  romanzas  were  never  sentimental 
enough,  nor  language  too  distinguished ;  and  he, 
the  man,  so  placid,  so  secure  in  his  amorous  well- 
being  !  He  watched  him  as  he  walked  at  his  side, 
with  his  pipe  between  his  teeth,  with  little  sighs 
of  beatitude,  while  he  himself  was  always  deep  in 
thought,  devouring  himself  with  impotent  rage. 

*'  You  will  get  over  it,  7n!  ami,''  Fanny  would 
say  gently  in  the  hours  when  they  told  each  other 
everything;  and  she  would  soothe  him,  as  affec- 
tionate and  charming  as  on  the  first  day,  but  with 
the  addition  of  a  sort  of  recklessness  which  Jean 
could  not  define. 

It  was  her  freer  manner,  her  fashion  of  express- 
ing  herself,  a  consciousness    of  her  own   power, 

5 


66  '  Sappho, 

strange  confidences,  for  which  he  did  not  ask,  con- 
cerning her  past  Hfe,  her  dissipation,  the  wild  peaks 
of  her  curiosity.  She  no  longer  abstained  from 
smoking,  rolling  in  her  fingers  the  everlasting 
cigarette  which  shortens  the  day  for  women  of  her 
sort,  and  leaving  it  about  on  all  the  furniture ;  and 
in  their  discussions  she  put  forth  the  most  cynical 
theories  concerning  Hfe  in  general,  the  infamy  of 
men,  the  roguery  of  women.  Even  the  expression 
of  her  eyes  changed,  made  heavy  by  a  vapor  as  of 
sleeping  water  through  which  flashed  the  lightning 
of  a  wanton  laugh. 

And  the  private  manifestations  of  their  passion 
likewise  underwent  a  transformation.  Reserved  at 
the  outset  on  account  of  the  youth  of  her  lover, 
whose  first  illusion  she  respected,  the  woman  threw 
off  all  restraint  after  she  had  seen  of  her  aban- 
doned past  the  effect  upon  that  child,  when  it  was 
suddenly  disclosed  to  him,  and  the  swamp  fever  she 
had  kindled  in  his  blood.  And  she  gave  free  rein 
to  the  diabolical  caresses  she  had  so  long  held  in 
check,  to  all  the  delirious  words  her  clenched  teeth 
had  arrested,  displayed  herself  without  reserve  in 
all  the  plenitude  of  her  charms  as  an  amorous,  ac- 
complished courtesan,  in  all  the  horrible  glory  of 
Sappho. 

Modesty,  reserve,  of  what  use  were  they?  Men 
are  all  alike,  crazy  after  vice  and  corruption,  —  that 
little  fellow,  like  the  rest.  To  tempt  them  with 
what  they  love  is  the  best  way  to  retain  one's  hold 
on  them.  And  all  that  she  knew,  all  the  forms 
of  depravity  in  pleasure  with  which  she  had  been 


Sappho,  67 

inoculated,  Jean  learned  in  his  turn,  to  pass  them 
on'  to  others.  Thus  the  poison  circulates,  propa- 
gates itself,  consuming  body  and  soul,  like  those 
torches  of  which  the  Latin  poet  speaks,  which  ran 
from  hand  to  hand  through  the  circus. 


68  Sappho, 


In  their  bedroom,  beside  a  fine  portrait  of  Fanny 
by  James  Tissot,  a  relic  of  her  pristine  splendor, 
there  was  a  Southern  landscape,  all  in  black  and 
white,  roughly  represented  in  the  sunHght  by  a 
country  photographer. 

A  stony  hillside  with  terraces  of  vines  supported 
by  stone-walls,  and  higher  up,  sheltered  from  the 
north  wind  by  rows  of  cypresses  and  nestling 
against  *a  small  forest  of  pines  and  myrtles  on 
which  the  sun  shone  brightly,  was  the  great  white 
house,  half  farm-house,  half  chateau,  with  a  broad 
stoop,  Italian  roof,  escutcheoned  doors,  and  be- 
yond, the  red  walls  of  the  Provencal  mas,  the 
perches  for  the  peacocks,  the  crib  for  the  cattle, 
and  the  open  sheds  with  ploughshares  and  har- 
rows gleaming  in  their  dark  depths.  The  ruins  of 
ancient  fortifications,  an  enormous  tower  outlined 
against  a  cloudless  sky,  overlooked  the  whole,  with 
a  few  roofs  and  the  Roman  church  tower  of 
Chateauneuf-des-Papes,  where  the  Gaussins  d  'Ar- 
mandy  had  dwelt  for  all  time. 

The  domain  of  Castelet,  vineyard  and  farm,  rich 
in  its  vines,  which  were  as  famous  as  those  of  La 
Nerte  and  L'  Ermitage,  was  transmitted  from  father 
to  son,  held  in  common  by  all  the  children,  but 
always  worked  by  the  younger  son,  in  accordance 


Sappho.  69 

with  the  family  tradition  that  required  the  eldest  son 
to  enter  the  consular  service.  Unluckily  nature 
often  interferes  with  such  arrangements ;  and  if  ever 
there  was  a  human  being  incapable  of  managing  a 
farm,  of  managing  anything  under  heaven,  it  was 
Cesaire  Gaussin,  upon  whom  that  heavy  responsi- 
bility fell  when  he  was  twenty-four  years  of  age. 

A  libertine,  a  haunter  of  village  gambling-hells 
and  brothels,  Cesaire,  or  rather  Le  Fenat,  —  the 
good-for-naught,  the  bad  boy,  —  to  give  him  his 
youthful  sobriquet,  was  an  exaggerated  specimen 
of  the  incongruous  type  which  appears  from  time 
to  time  in  the  most  austere  families,  like  a  sort  of 
safety-valve. 

After  a  few  years  of  neglect,  of  idiotic  waste, 
of  disastrous  games  of  botcillotte  at  the  clubs  of 
Avignon  and  Orange,  the  estate  was  mortgaged, 
the  reserve  cellars  drained  dry,  the  growing  crops 
sold  in  advance ;  and  one  day,  on  the  eve  of  the 
final  levy,  Le  Fenat  imitated  his  brother's  signa- 
ture, and  drew  three  drafts  payable  at  the  consu- 
late at  Shanghai,  feehng  assured  that  he  could 
procure  the  money  to  take  them  up  before  they 
matured;  but  they  were  presented  to  the  elder 
brother  in  due  course,  with  a  desperate  letter  con- 
fessing the  ruin  of  the  family  and  the  forgeries. 
The  consul  hastened  to  Chateauneuf,  remedied 
the  desperate  condition  of  affairs  by  the  aid  of  his 
savings  and  his  wife's  dowry,  and,  realizing  Le 
Fenat's  incapacity,  he  renounced  the  "  career," 
although  it  was  opening  brilliantly  before  him,  and 
became  a  simple  vine-grower. 


70  Sappho. 

A  true  Gaussin  he,  in  whom  adherence  to  tra- 
dition was  a  mania,  alternately  violent  and  calm, 
like  an  extinct  volcano  with  a  remnant  of  eruptive 
power  in  reserve,  threatening  at  times  to  break 
out;  hard-working  withal,  and  an  exceedingly 
well-informed  agriculturist.  Thanks  to  him,  Cas- 
telet  prospered,  extended  its  boundaries  to  include 
all  the  property  as  far  as  the  Rhone,  and,  as 
human  chances  and  mischances  never  come  singly, 
little  Jean  made  his  appearance  under  the  myrtles 
of  the  homestead.  Meanwhile  Le  Fenat  wandered 
about  the  house,  crushed  under  the  weight  of  his 
wrong-doing,  hardly  daring  to  look  at  his  brother, 
whose  contemptuous  silence  overwhelmed  him; 
he  breathed  freely  only  in  the  fields,  hunting  or 
fishing,  tiring  out  his  disappointment  by  trifling 
tasks,  picking  snails  from  the  vines,  cutting  superb 
canes  of  myrtle  or  reed,  and  breakfasting  alone 
out-of-doors  on  a  brochette  of  little  birds,  which  he 
cooked  over  a  fire  of  olive-branches  in  the  middle 
of  the  pasture.  Returning  at  night  to  dine  at  his 
brother's  table,  he  did  not  speak  a  word,  notwith- 
standing his  sister-in-law's  indulgent  smile,  for  she 
pitied  the  poor  creature  and  supplied  him  with 
pocket-money,  unknown  to  her  husband,  who  dealt 
sternly  with  Le  Fenat,  less  on  account  of  his  past 
follies  than  on  account  of  those  still  to  come ;  and 
in  truth,  the  great  catastrophe  was  no  sooner  re- 
paired than  the  elder  Gaussin's  pride  was  subjected 
to  a  new  test. 

Three  times  a  week,  a  pretty  fisher-girl  came  to 
Castelet  to   sew,  —  Divonne  Abrieu,  born  in  the 


Sappho,  "J  I 

osier-bed  on  the  bank  of  the  Rhone,  a  genuine 
river-plant,  with  a  long,  undulating  stalk.  In  her 
Catalan  cap  of  three  pieces  fitting  tightly  to  her 
little  head,  the  ribbons  thrown  back  and  disclosing 
the  curve  of  the  neck,  slightly  tanned  like  the  face, 
down  to  the  delicate  snow-white  lines  of  the  breast 
and  shoulders,  she  made  one  think  of  some  donna 
of  the  old  courts  of  love  held  all  around  Chateau- 
neuf,  at  Courthezon,  at  Vacqueiras,  in  the  old 
donjons  whose  ruins  are  crumbling  away  on  the 
hillsides. 

That  historical  suggestion  had  nothing  to  do 
with  Cesaire's  love,  for  he  was  a  simple  soul,  de- 
void of  imagination,  and  unread ;  but,  being  short 
in  stature,  he  liked  tall  women,  and  was  caught 
the  first  day.  He  was  an  expert,  was  Le  Fenat, 
in  village  intrigues ;  a  contradance  at  the  ball  on 
Sunday,  a  present  of  game,  and  afterward  the 
meeting  in  the  fields.  He  found  that  Divonne 
did  not  dance,  that  she  herself  brought  game 
to  the  kitchen,  and  that,  being  as  strong  and  firm 
on  her  legs  as  one  of  the  flexible  white  poplars 
on  the  river-bank,  she  was  able  to  hurl  the  seducer 
headlong  ten  feet  away.  After  that  she  kept  him 
at  a  distance  with  the  points  of  her  scissors,  which 
hung  at  her  belt  by  a  steel  chain,  and  drove  him 
mad  with  love,  so  that  he  talked  of  marrying  her 
and  confided  in  his  sister-in-law.  She,  having 
known  Divonne  Abrieu  from  childhood,  and  know- 
ing her  to  be  virtuous  and  refined,  thought  in  her 
inmost  heart  that  that  mesalliance  would  perhaps 
be  Le  Fenat's  salvation;    but  the   consul's  pride 


72  Sappho, 

rebelled  at  the  idea  of  a  Gaussin  d'Armandy  marry- 
ing a  peasant :  ''  If  Cesaire  does  that,  I  will  never 
see  him  again."     And  he  kept  his  word. 

Cesaire  married,  left  Castelet,  and  went  to  Hve 
with  his  wife's  relations  on  the  bank  of  the  Rhone, 
on  a  small  allowance  which  his  brother  made  him 
and  which  his  indulgent  sister-in-law  carried  to 
him  every  month.  Little  Jean  accompanied  his 
mother  on  her  visits,  taking  the  keenest  delight 
in  the  cabin  of  the  Abrieus,  a  round  smoke-be- 
grimed structure,  shaken  by  the  tramontane  or 
the  mistral,  and  supported  by  a  single,  vertical 
timber  like  a  mast.  The  open  doorway  formed 
a  frame  for  the  little  jetty  where  the  nets  lay  dry- 
ing, with  the  silvery,  pearly  scales  gleaming  and 
sparlding  among  the  meshes;  below  lay  two  or 
three  great  fishing-boats,  tossing  and  straining  at 
their  cables,  and  the  broad  joyous  river,  aglow 
with  light,  splashing  against  its  islands  in  pale 
green  masses.  And  Jean,  when  he  was  very 
young,  acquired  there  his  fondness  for  long  jour- 
neys, and  for  the  sea  which  he  had  never  seen. 

Uncle  Cesaire's  exile  lasted  two  or  three  years ; 
it  might  never  have  ended  except  for  a  momen- 
tous event  in  the  family,  the  birth  of  the  two  little 
twins,  Marie  and  Marthe.  The  mother  fell  sick  as 
a  result  of  that  double  birth,  and  Cesaire  and  his 
wife  were  granted  permission  to  go  and  see  her. 
The  visit  was  followed  by  a  reconciliation  between 
the  two  brothers,  illogical,  instinctive,  due  to  the 
irresistible  power  of  community  of  blood  ;  Cesaire 
and  his  wife  took  up  their  abode  at  Castelet,  and 


Sappho.  73 

as  the  poor  mother  was  completely  disabled  by 
incurable  anaemia,  soon  complicated  by  rheumatic 
gout,  it  fell  to  Divonne  to  keep  the  house,  to  su- 
perintend the  rearing  of  the  little  girls,  to  take 
charge  of  the  numerous  staff  of  servants,  and 
to  go  twice  a  week  to  see  Jean  at  his  school  at 
Avignon,  to  say  nothing  of  the  nursing  of  her 
invalid,  who  required  her  constant  attention. 

Being  a  woman  of  orderly  instincts  and  clear- 
headed, she  made  up  for  her  lack  of  education  by 
her  intelligence,  her  peasant's  shrewdness,  and  the 
stray  bits  of  learning  that  had  remained  in  the  brain 
pf  Le  Fenat,  now  thoroughly  tamed  and  disci- 
plined. The  consul  relied  upon  her  to  overlook 
all  the  outlay  for  household  expenses,  which  were 
very  heavy  with  the  increased  burdens  and  the 
constantly  diminishing  revenues,  sapped  at  the 
foot  of  the  vines  by  the  phylloxera.  All  the  out- 
lying fields  suffered,  but  the  home  farm  was  still 
free  from  the  pest ;  and  the  consul  was  constantly 
preoccupied  by  his  endeavors  to  save  the  home 
farm  by  investigation  and  experiment. 

This  Divonne  Abrieu,  who  clung  to  her  peasant 
cap  and  her  artisan's  steel  chain,  and  performed 
so  modestly  her  duties  as  housekeeper  and  com- 
panion, kept  the  family  out  of  financial  difficulty 
in  those  critical  years;  the  invalid  was  always 
supplied  with  the  same  costly  luxuries ;  the  little 
girls  were  reared  beside  their  mother,  like  young 
ladies,  and  Jean's  allowance  regularly  paid,  first 
at  the  boarding-school,  then  at  Aix,  where  he 
studied  law,  and  finally  at  Paris,  whither  he  had 


74  Sappho, 

gone  to  finish  his  course.  By  what  miracles  of 
orderly  management,  of  vigilance,  she  succeeded 
in  accomplishing  so  much,  they  were  all  as  igno- 
rant as  she.  But  whenever  Jean  thought  of  Cas- 
telet,  whenever  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  photograph 
with  its  pale  tones  faded  by  the  hght,  the  first  face 
that  it  recalled,  the  first  name  that  he  uttered,  was 
Divonne's,  the  great-hearted  peasant  woman  who, 
he  felt,  was  hidden  behind  the  house  of  his  fathers, 
holding  it  erect  by  the  force  of  her  will.  For  some 
days,  however,  since  he  had  known  what  his  mis- 
tress was,  he  had  avoided  pronouncing  that  revered 
name  before  her,  as  well  as  his  mother's  and  those 
of  all  his  family ;  it  even  annoyed  him  to  look  at 
the  photograph,  it  was  so  out  of  place,  so  lost,  on 
that  wall  above  Sappho's  bed ! 

One  day,  on  returning  home  to  dinner,  he  was 
surprised  to  find  three  covers  laid  instead  of  two, 
and  even  more  surprised  to  find  Fanny  playing 
cards  with  a  little  man  whom  he  did  not  recognize 
at  first,  but  who,  on  turning  toward  him,  displayed 
the  light  wild-goat's  eyes,  the  enormous  triumphant 
nose  in  a  sunburned  simpering  face,  the  bald  pate 
and  the  Leaguer's  beard  of  Uncle  Cesaire.  He 
answered  his  nephew's  exclamations  without  put- 
ting down  his  cards :  — 

''  I  make  myself  at  home,  you  see ;  I  'm  playing 
bezique  with  my  niece," 

His  niece ! 

And  Jean  had  taken  such  pains  to  conceal  his 
liaison    from   everybody !      That    familiarity   dis- 


Sappho,  75 

pleased  him,  and  the  remarks  Cesaire  made  in  an 
undertone  while  Fanny  was  busy  with  the  dinner. 
**  I  congratulate  you,  my  boy — such  eyes  and 
arms  !  a  morsel  for  a  king  !  "  It  was  much  worse 
when  Le  Fenat  began,  at  the  table,  to  talk  without 
the  slightest  reserve  of  the  state  of  affairs  at  Cas- 
telet,  of  the  errand  that  brought  him  to  Paris. 

The  pretended  object  of  his  journey  was  to  col- 
lect a  sum  of  money,  eight  thousand  francs,  which 
he  had  loaned  long  ago  to  his  friend  Courbebaisse 
and  never  expected  to  see  again ;  but  a  letter  from 
a  notary  had  informed  him  of  Courbebaisse's  death, 
pechhe !  and  that  his  eight  thousand  francs  were 
ready  for  him  at  any  time.  But  the  real  cause, 
for  the  money  might  have  been  sent  to  him,  *'  the 
real  cause  is  your  mother's  health,  my  poor  boy. 
She  has  failed  very  rapidly  of  late,  and  there  are 
times  when  her  head  's  all  astray  and  she  forgets 
everything,  even  the  children's  names.  The  other 
night,  when  your  father  left  her  room,  she  asked 
Divonne  who  that  pleasant  gentleman  was  who 
came  to  see  her  so  often.  No  one  but  your  aunt 
has  noticed  this  as  yet,  and  she  only  mentioned  it 
to  me  to  induce  me  to  come  to  Paris  and  consult 
Bouchereau  about  the  poor  woman's  condition, 
for  he  treated  her  once  before." 

"  Has  there  ever  been  any  insanity  in  the 
family?"  inquired  Fanny,  with  a  grave  and  learned 
air,  her  La  Gournerie  air. 

"Never,"  said  Le  Fenat;  adding,  with  a  sly 
smile  that  extended  to  his  temples,  that  he  had 
been  a  little  cracked  in  his  youth;  "but  my  in- 


76  Sappho. 

sanity  was  not  displeasing  to  the  ladies,  and  I 
did  n't  have  to  be  shut  up." 

Jean  gazed  at  them,  heartbroken.  The  grief 
caused  by  the  sad  news  was  increased  by  an  op- 
pressive feeling  of  disgust  at  hearing  that  woman 
talk  about  his  mother,  her  infirmities  and  her  crit- 
ical time  of  life,  with  the  unvarnished  language  and 
the  experienced  air  of  a  matron,  while  she  sat  with 
her  elbows  on  the  table,  rolling  a  cigarette.  And 
the  other,  talkative  and  indiscreet,  threw  aside  all 
reserve  and  told  all  the  family  secrets. 

Oh !  the  vines  —  the  vines  were  in  a  wretched 
state  !  And  even  the  home  place  itself  would  not 
last  long;  half  of  the  young  shoots  were  de- 
stroyed already,  and  they  saved  the  rest  only  by 
a  miracle,  tending  each  bunch,  each  grape  like 
sick  children,  with  drugs  which  cost  a  lot.  The 
alarming  part  of  it  was  that  the  consul  persisted 
in  planting  new  slips,  which  the  worms  attacked 
at  once,  instead  of  letting  olive-trees  and  caper- 
bushes  grow  at  will  on  all  that  excellent  land,  now 
entirely  useless,  covered  with  leprous  and  withered 
vines. 

Luckily  he,  Cesaire,  had  a  few  hectares  on  the 
bank  of  the  Rhone,  which  he  treated  by  immer- 
sion, a  magnificent  discovery  appHcable  only  on 
low  lands.  Already  he  had  been  encouraged  by 
an  excellent  crop,  which  produced  a  light  wine, 
not  very  heady,  —  "  frog's  wine,"  the  consul  con- 
temptuously called  it  —  but  Le  Fenat  was  obsti- 
nate too,  and  with  Courbebaisse's  eight  thousand 
francs  he  proposed  to  buy  Piboulette. 


Sappho.  77 

"You  know,  my  boy,  the  little  island  in  the 
Rhone,  below  the  Abrieus'  place ;  but  this  is  be- 
tween ourselves,  no  one  at  Castelet  must  have  a 
suspicion  of  it." 

"  Not  even  Divonne,  uncle  ? "  queried  Fanny, 
with  a  smile. 

At  his  wife's  name  tears  gathered  in  Le  Fenat's 
eyes. 

"  Oh !  Divonne  —  I  never  do  anything  without 
her.  She  has  faith  in  my  idea  too,  and  would  be 
so  happy  if  her  poor  Cesaire  should  repair  the 
fortunes  of  Castelet  after  being  the  beginning  of 
its  ruin." 

Jean  shuddered ;  in  God's  name,  did  he  propose 
to  confess,  to  tell  the  lamentable  story  of  the  for- 
geries? But  the  Provencal,  thinking  only  of  his 
affection  for  Divonne,  had  begun  to  talk  about  her, 
of  the  happiness  she  gave  him.  And  she  was  so 
lovely  too,  such  a  magnificent  frame ! 

"  Here,  my  niece,  you  're  a  woman,  you  ought 
to  be  a  good  judge." 

He  took  from  his  wallet  and  handed  her  a  photo- 
graph which  never  left  him. 

From  Jean's  filial  tone  when  he  spoke  of  his 
aunt,  from  the  peasant  woman's  maternal  advice 
written  in  a  coarse,  slightly  tremulous  hand,  Fanny 
had  imagined  her  to  be  like  one  of  the  common 
white-capped  village  women  of  Seine-et-Oise,  and 
was  speechless  with  amazement  at  sight  of  that 
pretty  face  with  its  pure  contour,  brightened  by  the 
narrow  white  headgear,  that  graceful  and  flexible 
figure  of  a  woman  of  thirty-five. 


78  Sappho. 

"  Very  lovely  indeed,"  she  said,  pursing  up  her 
lips  and  with  a  strange  inflection. 

"  And  such  a  frame  !  "  said  the  uncle,  clinging  to 
his  image. 

Then  they  went  out  on  the  balcony.  After  a 
day  of  such  extreme  heat  that  the  zinc  of  the 
veranda  still  burned  one's  hand,  a  fine  rain  was 
falling  from  a  stray  cloud,  cooling  the  air,  pat- 
tering gayly  on  the  roofs,  drenching  the  sidewalks. 
Paris  laughed  merrily  under  that  shower,  and  the 
noise  of  the  crowd  and  the  carriages,  the  uproar 
ascending  from  the  streets  intoxicated  the  provin- 
cial, rang  in  his  empty,  volatile  head  like  a  bell, 
recalling  his  youth  and  a  stay  of  three  months  in 
Paris  thirty  years  before,  with  his  friend  Courbe- 
baisse. 

*'  Such  sport,  my  children,  such  high  old  times  !  " 
And  he  told  how  they  went  to  the  Prado  one 
Mi-Careme,  Courbebaisse  as  Chicard,  and  his  mis- 
tress. La  Mornas,  as  a  ballad-monger,  —  a  disguise 
which  brought  her  good  luck,  as  she  had  become 
a  cafi  concert  celebrity.  He  himself,  the  uncle, 
moored  his  boat  to  a  little  hussy  of  the  quarter 
whose  name  was  Pellicule.  And  he  laughed  from 
his  mouth  to  his  temples,  as  merry  as  a  cricket, 
hummed  dance-tunes,  and  beat  time  with  his  arm 
about  his  niece's  waist.  At  midnight,  when  he 
left  them  to  return  to  Hotel  Cujas,  the  only  hotel 
he  knew  in  Paris,  he  sang  at  the  top  of  his  voice 
on  the  stairs,  threw  kisses  to  his  niece,  who  held 
the  light  for  him,  and  shouted  to  Jean,  — 

"•  I  say,  look  out  for  yourself!  " 


Sappho.  79 

As  soon  as  he  had  gone,  Fanny,  upon  whose 
forehead  there  remained  a  preoccupied  fold,  passed 
hastily  into  her  dressing-room,  and  through  the 
half-open  door,  while  Jean  was  preparing  for  bed, 
she  began  in  an  almost  indifferent  tone :  "  I  say, 
your  aunt 's  very  pretty  —  I  am  not  surprised  now 
that  you  talked  about  her  so  often.  You  prob- 
ably gave  poor  old  Le  Fenat  plenty  of  cause  for 
jealousy." 

He  protested  with  the  utmost  indignation. 
Divonne !  a  second  mother  to  him,  who  used  to 
take  care  of  him  and  dress  him  when  he  was  a 
little  child  !  She  saved  him  when  he  was  sick,  from 
death !  No,  no  !  he  never  had  had  the  slightest 
temptation  to  commit  such  an  infamous  act. 

"  Nonsense  !  nonsense  !  "  retorted  the  woman's 
strident  voice,  with  hair-pins  between  her  teeth; 
"  you  can't  make  me  believe  that  with  those  eyes 
and  the  ^vio^  frame  that  imbecile  talked  about,  his 
Divonne  could  ever  have  remained  indifferent  be- 
side a  dainty  blond  with  a  woman's  skin,  like  you ! 
We  're  all  alike,  you  see,  on  the  banks  of  the  Rhone 
or  anywhere  else." 

She  said  it  with  conviction,  believing  that  her 
whole  sex  was  quick  to  yield  to  every  caprice  and 
conquered  by  the  first  desire.  He  reiterated  his 
denial,  but  he  was  disturbed  in  mind,  searching 
his  memory,  asking  himself  if  the  breath  of  an 
innocent  caress  had  ever  warned  him  of  any  peril 
whatsoever ;  he  could  remember  nothing,  but  the 
purity  of  his  affection  was  sullied,  the  pure  cameo 
marred  with  a  scratch. 


8o  Sappho, 

"  There  !  look  —  this  is  the  way  they  arrange  the 
hair  in  your  country." 

Upon  her  lovely  hair,  massed  in  two  long  bands, 
she  had  pinned  a  handkerchief  which  made  a  very 
good  imitation  of  the  catalane,  the  cap  in  three 
pieces  worn  by  the  girls  of  Chateauneuf;  and, 
standing  very  straight  in  front  of  him,  in  the  milk- 
white  folds  of  her  night-dress,  with  flashing  eyes, 
she  asked  him,  — 

"  Do  I  look  like  Divonne?  " 

Oh !  no,  not  at  all ;  she  resembled  no  one  but 
herself,  in  that  little  cap  which  recalled  the  other, 
the  Saint-Lazare  cap,  in  which  she  looked  so 
pretty,  they  said,  when  she  threw  her  convict  a 
farewell  kiss  in  the  courtroom :  "  Don't  be  dis- 
couraged, m'  ami ;  the  happy  days  will  return." 

And  that  reminiscence  affected  him  so  unpleas- 
antly that,  as  soon  as  his  mistress  was  in  bed,  he 
hurriedly  extinguished  the  hght,  to  avoid  looking 
at  her. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  uncle  arrived  in  fine 
feather,  twirling  his  cane,  and  called  out,  **  Oho ! 
bebes! "  in  the  gamesome,  patronizing  tone  that 
Courbebaisse  used  to  adopt  when  he  came  to  look 
for  him  in  Pellicule's  arms.  He  seemed  even  more 
excited  than  on  the  previous  day :  the  Hotel  Cujas, 
doubtless,  and  more  than  all  else,  the  eight  thou- 
sand francs  stowed  away  in  his  wallet.  The  money 
to  purchase  Piboulette,  to  be  sure ;  but  he  cer- 
tainly had  the  right  to  abstract  a  few  louis  in  order 
to  offer  his  niece  a  breakfast  in  the  country. 


Sappho,  8i 

"  How  about  Bouchereau?  "  queried  his  nephew, 
who  could  not  absent  himself  from  his  office  two 
days  in  succession.  It  was  agreed  that  they  should 
breakfast  on  the  Champs-Elysees  and  that  the  two 
men  should  go  afterwards  to  consult  the  doctor. 

That  was  not  what  Le  Fenat  had  dreamed  of,  — 
the  arrival  at  Saint-Cloud  in  great  state,  with  the 
carriage  filled  with  champagne ;  but  the  breakfast 
was  charming  none  the  less,  on  the  terrace  of  the 
restaurant  under  the  shade  of  the  acacias  and  Jap- 
anese varnish-trees,  with  occasional  snatches  of 
choruses  from  a  day  rehearsal  at  the  neighboring 
caf<6-concert.  C^saire,  very  talkative,  very  gallant, 
aired  all  his  fascinations  to  dazzle  the  Parisian. 
He  "  slanged  "  the  waiters,  complimented  the  chef 
on  his  sauce  nieunihe ;  and  Fanny  laughed  with 
a  silly,  forced  heartiness,  a  private  supper-room 
giggle,  which  annoyed  Gaussin,  as  did  the  intimacy 
established  between  the  uncle  and  the  niece  over 
his  head. 

You  would  have  said  that  they  were  friends  of 
twenty  years'  standing.  Le  Fenat,  becoming  sen- 
timental with  the  wines  served  at  dessert,  talked 
about  Castelet,  Divonne,  and  also  about  his  little 
Jean ;  he  was  happy  to  know  that  he  was  with  her, 
a  serious-minded  woman  who  would  prevent  him 
from  making  a  fool  of  himself.  And  he  proceeded 
to  advise  her,  as  if  she  were  a  young  bride,  con- 
cerning the  young  man's  somewhat  morose  dispo- 
sition and  the  best  way  to  treat  him,  tapping  her 
arms,  with  thick  tongue  and  glazed,  watery  eyes. 

He  sobered  off  at  Bouchereau's.  Two  hours  of 
6 


82  Sappho. 

waiting  on  the  first  floor  on  Place  Vendome,  in 
those  huge  salons,  high  and  cold,  filled  with  a  silent, 
afflicted  crowd;  the  hell  of  pain  of  which  they 
traversed  all  the  zones  in  succession,  passing  from 
room  to  room  to  the  doctor's  office. 

Bouchereau,  with  his  prodigious  memory,  re- 
membered Madame  Gaussin  very  well,  having 
been  called  to  see  her  in  consultation  at  Castelet 
ten  years  before,  at  the  beginning  of  her  illness ; 
he  made  them  describe  its  different  phases,  looked 
over  the  former  prescriptions,  and  lost  no  time  in 
reassuring  the  two  men  concerning  the  symptoms 
of  cerebral  disturbance  which  had  developed  and 
which  he  attributed  to  the  use  of  certain  drugs. 
While  he  sat  motionless  at  his  desk,  with  his  heavy 
lashes  lowered  over  his  sharp,  searching  little  eyes, 
writing  a  long  letter  to  his  professional  brother  at 
Avignon,  the  uncle  and  nephew  hstened,  holding 
their  breath,  to  the  scratching  of  that  pen,  which, 
so  far  as  they  were  concerned,  drowned  all  the 
noises  of  aristocratic  Paris;  and  suddenly  the 
power  of  the  physician  in  modern  times  became 
manifest  to  them,  the  high-priest,  the  supreme 
faith,  the  unconquerable  superstition. 

Cesaire  left  the  house,  grave  and  subdued. 

''  I  am  going  back  to  the  hotel  to  strap  my  trunk. 
The  air  of  Paris  does  n't  agree  with  me,  I  'm  afraid, 
my  boy ;  if  I  stayed  on  here  I  should  make  a  fool 
of  myself  I  shall  take  the  seven-o'clock  train  to- 
night. Make  my  excuses  to  my  niece,  won't 
you?" 

Jean  was  careful  to  say  nothing  to  detain  him, 


Sappho.  ^z 

dreading  the  results  of  his  childishness,  his  frivol- 
ity; and  the  next  morning  he  was  congratulating 
himself  on  the  knowledge  that  he  was  once  more 
under  Divonne's  wing,  when  he  suddenly  appeared, 
with  dejected  features  and  his  linen  in  sad  dis- 
order. 

"  Great  God  !  uncle,  what  has  happened  to  you  ?  " 

Collapsing  into  an  arm-chair,  voiceless  and  limp 
at  first,  but  reviving  by  slow  degrees,  the  uncle 
confessed  to  a  meeting  with  a  friend  of  the  Cour- 
bebaisse  time,  a  too  copious  dinner,  and  the  loss 
of  the  eight  thousand  francs  in  a  gambling-hell 
during  the  night.  Nothing  left,  not  a  sou  !  How 
could  he  go  home  and  tell  Divonne  that?  And 
the  purchase  of  Piboulette.  Suddenly  attacked 
with  a  sort  of  delirium,  the  Southerner  put  his 
hands  over  his  eyes,  stuffed  his  thumbs  into  his 
ears,  howled,  sobbed,  cursed  himself  without  stint, 
gave  vent  to  his  remorse  in  a  general  confession 
covering  his  whole  life.  He  was  the  shame  and 
the  curse  of  his  family;  when  individuals  of  his 
type  appeared  in  families,  their  relatives  would 
have  the  right  to  destroy  them  hke  wolves.  Ex- 
cept for  his  brother's  generosity,  where  would  he 
be  ?     At  the  galleys  with  thieves  and  forgers. 

"  Uncle,  uncle  !  "  cried  Gaussin,  distressed  be- 
yond measure,  and  trying  to  stop  him. 

But  the  other,  wilfully  blind  and  deaf,  took  de- 
light in  that  public  declaration  of  his  crime,  which 
he  described  in  its  most  trivial  details,  while  Fanny 
gazed  at  him  in  pity  blended  with  admiration. 
He  was  a  passionate  fellow,  at  all  events,  just  such 


84  Sappho. 

a  scapegrace  as  she  liked ;  and,  deeply  moved  by 
his  predicament,  like  the  good-natured  creature 
she  was,  she  tried  to  devise  some  way  of  assisting 
him.  But  what  could  she  do?  She  had  seen  no- 
body for  a  year,  Jean  had  no  connections.  Sud- 
denly a  name  came  to  her  mind :  Dechelette ! 
He  was  undoubtedly  in  Paris  at  that  moment,  and 
he  was  such  a  kind-hearted  fellow ! 

"  But  I  hardly  know  him,"  said  Jean. 

**  I  will  go  to  him  myself." 

*'What!  do  you  mean  it?" 

"Why  not?" 

Their  glances  met  and  understood  each  other. 
Dechelette  also  had  been  her  lover,  the  lover  of 
a  night  whom  she  hardly  remembered.  But  he 
never  forgot  one ;  they  were  all  arranged  in  order 
in  his  head,  like  the  saints  on  a  calendar. 

"  If  it  annoys  you,"  she  began,  a  little  embar- 
rassed. Thereupon  Cesaire,  who,  during  that 
short  discussion,  had  ceased  his  howHng,  be- 
stowed upon  them  such  a  despairing,  imploring 
glance  that  Jean  submitted,  consented  between 
his  teeth. 

How  interminable  that  hour  seemed  to  both  of 
them,  distracted  as  they  were  by  thoughts  which 
they  did  not  divulge  to  each  other,  as  they  leaned 
on  the  balcony  rail,  waiting  for  the  woman's  return. 

**  Does  this  Dechelette  live  very  far  away?  " 

"Why,  no,  on  Rue  de  Rome  —  only  a  step," 
replied  Jean  fiercely,  for  he  too  thought  that 
Fanny  was  very  slow  in  returning.  He  tried  to 
comfort  himself  with  the  engineer's  motto  in  love : 


Sappho.  85 

"  No  to-morrow,"  and  the  scornful  tone  in  which 
he  had  heard  him  speak  of  Sappho  as  of  an  ex- 
star  of  the  world  of  gallantry ;  but  his  lover's  pride 
rebelled,  and  he  could  almost  have  wished  that 
Dechelette  would  still  consider  her  beautiful  and 
desirable.  Ah  !  why  need  that  crack-brained  old 
Cesaire  reopen  all  his  wounds  thus ! 

At  last  Fanny's  cape  turned  the  corner  of  the 
street.     She  returned  with  a  beaming  face. 

*'  It 's  all  right ;   I  have  the  money." 

When  the  eight  thousand  francs  were  spread  out 
before  him,  the  uncle  wept  with  joy,  insisted  on 
giving  a  receipt,  on  fixing  the  rate  of  interest  and 
the  date  of  repayment. 

''There's  no  need  of  it,  uncle.  I  didn't  men- 
tion your  name.  I  am  the  one  to  whom  the  money 
was  loaned,  and  you  owe  it  to  me  for  as  long  a 
time  as  you  please." 

**  Such  a  service,"  replied  Cesaire,  beside  him- 
self with  gratitude,  "  is  repaid  with  a  friendship 
that  never  ends."  And  at  the  station,  whither 
Gaussin  accompanied  him  to  make  sure  that  he 
really  took  the  train,  he  said  with  tears  in  his 
eyes  :  "  What  a  woman  !  what  a  treasure  !  You 
must  make  her  happy,  I  tell  you." 

Jean  was  much  depressed  by  that  episode,  feel- 
ing that  his  chain,  already  so  burdensome,  was 
drawn  tighter  and  tighter,  and  that  two  things 
had  become  blended  which  his  innate  delicacy 
had  always  kept  separate  and  distinct :  his  family 
and  his  liaison.  Now  Cesaire  kept  the  mistress 
informed  about  all  his  labors,  his  plantations,  gave 


86  Sappho, 

her  all  the  news  of  Castelet ;  and  Fanny  criticised 
the  consul's  obstinacy  in  the  matter  of  the  vines, 
talked  about  his  mother's  health,  irritated  Jean  with 
her  solicitude  or  with  misplaced  advice.  Never 
an  allusion  to  the  service  she  had  rendered  him. 
No,  indeed,  nor  to  Le  Fenat's  former  experience, 
that  blot  on  the  fair  fame  of  the  house  of  Armandy, 
which  the  uncle  had  laid  bare  before  her.  Once 
only  did  she  use  it  as  a  weapon  of  retort,  under 
the  following  circumstances. 

They  were  returning  from  the  theatre,  and,  as 
it  was  raining,  they  took  a  cab  at  a  stand  on 
the  boulevard.  The  cab,  one  of  those  lumbering 
affairs  which  appear  only  after  midnight,  was  a 
long  while  in  starting,  the  man  half  asleep  and 
the  horse  shaking  his  nose-bag.  While  they  were 
waiting  inside  the  vehicle  out  of  the  rain,  an  old 
driver,  who  was  tying  a  new  lash  on  his  whip, 
calmly  walked  up  to  the  door,  his  twine  between 
his  teeth,  and  said  to  Fanny  in  a  cracked  voice, 
reeking  with  hquor,  — 

''  Good-evening.     How  goes  it?" 

"Hallo,  is  it  you?" 

She  gave  a  little  start,  quickly  repressed,  and 
said  to  her  lover  in  an  undertone,  "  My  father !  " 

Her  father  —  that  night-prowler  in  a  long  ex- 
livery  cape,  stained  with  mud  and  minus  some  of 
its  metal  buttons,  and  displaying  in  the  light  of 
the  street  lamp  a  bloated  face,  purple  with  alcohol, 
in  which  Gaussin  fancied  that  he  could  recognize, 
in  a  vulgarized  form,  Fanny's  regular,  sensuous 
profile,  her  great  lustful  eyes !     Without  paying 


Sappho,  87 

any  heed  to  the  man  who  accompanied  his  daugh- 
ter, and  as  if  he  had  not  seen  him,  Pere  Legrand 
proceeded  to  give  her  news  of  the  family.  '*  The 
old  woman  's  been  at  Necker  a  fortnight ;  she  's  in 
a  bad  way.  Go  and  see  her  some  day;  it  will 
cheer  her  up.  As  for  me,  luckily  the  box-seat 
holds  firm;  still  a  good  whip  and  a  good  lash. 
But  business  ain't  very  good.  If  you  happened  to 
want  a  good  coachman  by  the  month,  that  would 
just  suit  me.  No?  All  right,  then,  and  good-bye 
till  I  see  you  again." 

They  shook  hands  limply ;  the  cab  started. 

"  Well,  would  you  believe  it  ?  "  murmured  Fanny ; 
and  she  began  at  once  to  tell  him  at  length  about 
her  family,  a  subject  which  she  had  always  avoided, 
**  it  was  so  ghastly,  so  degrading!  "  but  they  knew 
each  other  better  now ;  they  had  nothing  to  con- 
ceal from  each  other. 

She  was  born  at  the  Moulin-aux- Anglais,  an  inn 
in  the  suburbs,  of  that  father,  an  ex-dragoon,  who 
drove  the  stage  from  Paris  to  Chatillon,  and  of  an 
inn-servant,  between  two  trips  to  the  bar. 

She  had  never  known  her  mother,  who  died  in 
giving  birth  to  her;  but  the  proprietors  of  the 
house,  like  honest  people,  compelled  the  father 
to  acknowledge  his  little  one  and  to  pay  for  her 
nursing.  He  dared  not  refuse,  for  he  owed  a  large 
sum  there ;  and  when  Fanny  was  four  years  old, 
he  took  her  on  the  stage  like  a  little  dog,  perched 
away  up  under  the  hood,  highly  delighted  to  bowl 
along  the  roads,  to  watch  the  lights  of  the  lanterns 
running  alongside,  the  smoking,  panting  flanks  of 


88  Sappho. 

the  horses,  and  to  fall  asleep  in  the  darkness  and 
the  wind,  listening  to  the  tinkling  bells. 

But  Pere  Legrand  soon  tired  of  that  essay  in 
paternity;  little  as  it  cost,  he  had  to  feed  and 
dress  the  brat.  And  then,  too,  she  was  an  em- 
barrassment to  him  in  the  matter  of  a  marriage 
with  a  market-gardener's  widow  upon  whose  melon- 
beds  and  long  hnes  of  cabbages,  by  which  his 
route  lay,  he  had  cast  a  longing  eye.  She  had 
at  that  time  a  very  well-defined  conviction  that 
her  father  intended  to  destroy  her ;  that  was  the 
drunkard's  absorbing  idea,  to  rid  himself  of  the 
child  at  any  price ;  and  if  the  widow  herself,  good 
Mere  Machaume,  had  not  taken  her  under  her 
protection  — 

"  By  the  way,  you  knew  Machaume,"  said  Fanny. 

"What!  that  servant  I  saw  at  your  old  apart- 
ments?" 

"  She  was  my  step-mother.  She  was  so  kind  to 
me  when  I  was  little ;  I  took  her  into  my  service  to 
rescue  her  from  her  cur  of  a  husband,  who,  after 
using  up  all  her  property,  beat  her  and  compelled 
her  to  wait  on  a  trollop  with  whom  he  was  Hving. 
Ah !  poor  Machaume,  she  knows  what  a  hand- 
some man  costs.  Well,  when  she  left  me,  in  spite 
of  all  I  could  say  to  her,  she  lost  no  time  in  taking 
up  with  him  again,  and  now  here  she  is  at  the  hos- 
pital. How  fast  he  goes  backward  without  her, 
the  old  rascal !  how  dirty  he  was !  what  a  rag- 
picker's look !  there 's  nothing  left  of  him  but  his 
whip  —  did  you  see  how  straight  he  held  it?  Even 
when  he 's  too   drunk  to  stand,  he  '11  carry  it  in 


Sappho,  89 

front  of  him  like  a  taper  and  put  it  in  his  room ; 
he  never  kept  anything  decent  but  that.  *  Good 
whip,  good  lash/  that 's  his  motto." 

She  talked  about  him  unconsciously,  as  a  stran- 
ger, without  disgust  or  shame ;  and  Jean  was  ap- 
palled to  hear  her.  Such  a  father  !  such  a  mother  ! 
—  compared  with  the  consul's  stern  features  and 
Madame  Gaussin's  angelic  smile !  And  realizing 
suddenly  the  full  significance  of  her  lover's  silence, 
his  revolt  against  that  social  filth  with  which  he 
was  splashed  by  living  with  her,  Fanny  observed 
in  a  philosophical  tone :  **  After  all,  there  seems 
to  be  something  of  the  sort  in  all  families,  and 
we  're  not  responsible  for  it.  I  have  my  Pere  Le- 
grand ;  you  have  your  Uncle  Cesaire." 


90  Sappho. 


VI. 


"  My  dear  Boy,  —  As  I  write  you  I  am  still 
all  in  a  tremble  from  the  terrible  anxiety  we  have 
had ;  our  twins  disappeared,  away  from  Castelet  a 
whole  day  and  night  and  the  morning  of  the  next 
day ! 

**  It  was  Sunday  at  breakfast  time  that  we  noticed 
that  the  little  ones  were  missing.  I  had  dressed 
them  nicely  for  the  eight-o'clock  mass  to  which 
the  consul  was  to  take  them ;  then  I  thought  no 
more  about  it,  being  busy  with  your  mother,  who 
was  more  nervous  than  usual,  as  if  she  had  a  pre- 
sentiment of  the  misfortune  that  was  hovering  over 
us.  You  know,  ever  since  she 's  been  sick,  she 
has  been  able  to  foresee  what  was  going  to  happen ; 
and  the  less  able  she  is  to  move,  the  more  busily 
her  brain  works. 

"  Luckily  your  mother  was  in  her  chamber,  and 
the  rest  of  us  were  all  in  the  living-room  waiting 
for  the  little  ones;  we  shouted  for  them  all  over 
the  home-place,  the  shepherd  blew  the  great  whistle 
he  calls  the  sheep  with;  then  Cesaire  in  one  direc- 
tion, I  in  another,  Rousseline,  Tardive,  everybody 
rushed  all  about  Castelet,  and  whenever  one  of  us 
met  another,  it  was  :  '  Well  ?  '  —  '  Have  n't  found 
anything.'  At  last  we  did  n't  dare  ask ;  with  beat- 
ing heart  we  went  to  the  well  below  the  long  win- 


Sappho,  91 

dows  of  the  hay-loft.  What  a  day !  And  I  had 
to  go  up  every  minute  or  two  to  your  mother,  to 
smile  calmly,  and  explain  the  absence  of  the  little 
ones  by  saying  that  I  had  sent  them  to  pass  Sun- 
day with  their  aunt  at  Villamuris.  She  seemed  to 
believe  it ;  but  late  in  the  night,  while  I  was  sitting 
up  with  her,  and  looking  through  the  window  at 
the  lights  moving  about  in  the  fields  and  on  the 
Rhone,  searching  for  the  children,  I  heard  her  cry- 
ing softly  in  her  bed ;  and  when  I  questioned  her, 
*  I  am  crying  on  account  of  something  which  you 
are  hiding  from  me,  but  which  I  have  guessed  all 
the  same,'  she  replied,  in  the  girlish  voice  which 
her  suffering  has  brought  back ;  and  without  say- 
ing anything  more,  we  both  worried  our  hearts  out, 
keeping  our  grief  to  ourselves. 

**  At  last,  my  dear  child,  not  to  make  the  painful 
story  too  long,  on  Monday  morning  our  little  ones 
were  brought  back  to  us  by  the  workmen  whom 
your  uncle  employs  on  the  island,  who  had  found 
them  on  a  pile  of  vine-branches,  pale  with  cold  and 
hunger  after  that  night  in  the  open  air,  and  all  sur- 
rounded by  the  water.  And  this  is  what  they  told 
us  in  the  innocence  of  their  little  hearts.  For  a  long 
time  they  had  been  beset  by  the  idea  of  doing  like 
their  patron  saints,  Marthe  and  Marie,  whose  story 
they  had  read,  of  starting  off  in  a  boat  without 
sails  or  oars  or  food  of  any  sort,  and  spreading  the 
Gospel  on  the  first  shore  to  which  God's  breath 
might  carry  them.  And  so,  on  Sunday  after  mass, 
they  cast  off  a  fishing-boat,  and,  kneeling  in  the 
bottom  like  the  holy  women,  they  floated  quietly 


92  Sappho, 

along  with  the  current  and  ran  aground  among  the 
reeds  of  Piboulette,  notwithstanding  the  freshets, 
the  high  wind,  the  revouluns.  Yes,  the  good  Lord 
took  care  of  them !  and  it  was  he  who  gave  them 
back  to  us,  the  pretties !  with  their  Sunday  ruffles 
a  Httle  rumpled,  and  the  gilding  on  their  prayer- 
books  marred.  We  had  not  the  heart  to  scold 
them,  but  only  to  hug  and  kiss  them ;  but  we  are 
all  still  sick  with  the  fright  we  had. 

**  The  most  affected  of  all  was  your  mother,  who, 
although  we  had  told  her  nothing  about  it,  felt  death 
passing  over  Castelet,  as  she  says ;  and  she,  ordi- 
narily so  placid  and  cheerful,  still  retains  a  sadness 
which  nothing  seems  to  cure,  although  your  father 
and  I  and  everybody  are  tenderly  devoted  to  her. 
And  suppose  I  should  tell  you,  my  dear  Jean,  that 
it  is  on  your  account  more  than  any  other  that  she 
is  anxious  and  depressed?  She  dares  not  say  so 
before  your  father,  who  wishes  you  to  be  left  un- 
disturbed at  your  work,  but  you  did  n't  come  after 
your  examination  as  you  promised.  Give  us  a 
surprise  for  the  Christmas  holiday ;  help  an  invalid 
to  recover  her  lovely  smile.  If  you  knew  how  bit- 
terly we  regret,  when  we  no  longer  have  our  old 
people  with  us,  that  we  did  not  give  them  more  of 
our  time !  " 

Standing  by  the  window,  where  the  light  of  a 
winter's  sun  filtered  sluggishly  in  through  the  fog, 
Jean  read  that  letter,  relished  to  the  full  its  flavor 
of  the  fields,  the  cherished  memories  of  affection 
and  sunlight. 

"  What's  that?  — let  me  see." 


Sappho.  93 

Fanny  had  just  awakened  in  the  yellow  light 
that  found  its  way  between  the  parted  curtains, 
and,  heavy  with  sleep,  mechanically  put  out  her 
hand  to  the  box  of  Maryland  tobacco  that  always 
stood  on  her  night  table.  He  hesitated,  knowing 
how  the  mere  name  of  Divonne  always  inflamed 
his  mistress's  jealousy;  but  how  could  he  refuse 
to  show  her  the  letter,  when  she  recognized  the 
paper  and  the  handwriting? 

At  first  the  Httle  girls'  escapade  appealed  to  her 
sympathies  with  charming  effect,  as  she  sat  up  in 
bed,  with  arms  and  breast  bare,  amid  the  waves  of 
her  brown  hair,  reading  and  rolling  a  cigarette; 
but  the  closing  words  irritated  her  to  frenzy,  and 
she  crumpled  up  the  letter  and  threw  it  across  the 
room. 

"  I  '11  find  a  way  to  stop  her  mouth,  about  her 
holy  women !  It 's  all  a  scheme  to  make  you 
leave  Paris.  She  misses  her  handsome  nephew, 
the  —  " 

He  tried  to  check  her,  to  prevent  her  uttering 
the  filthy  word  which  she  hurled  at  him,  followed 
by  a  long  string  of  the  same  sort.  She  had  never 
given  vent  to  her  passion  in  such  vulgar  language 
before  him,  in  such  an  overflowing  torrent  of  foul 
anger,  as  from  a  sewer  that  had  burst  and  dis- 
charged its  slime  and  its  stench.  All  the  slang  of 
her  past  as  prostitute  and  street  arab  swelled  her 
throat  and  distended  her  lip. 

Easy  enough  to  see  what  they  all  wanted  down 
there.  C^saire  had  tattled  and  there  was  a  family 
scheme  to  break  off  their  connection,  to  lure  him 


94  Sappho, 

back  to  the  province  with  Divonne's  fine  frame  as 
a  bait. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  this,  if  you  go  I  '11  write  to 
your  cuckold.  I  '11  give  him  warning  —  ah  !  upon 
my  word  !  —  " 

As  she  spoke  she  gathered  herself  together  on 
the  bed  with  an  expression  of  bitter  hatred,  with 
hollow  cheeks  and  staring  eyes,  like  a  vicious  beast 
preparing  to  spring. 

And  Gaussin  remembered  that  he  had  seen  her 
so  on  Rue  de  1' Arcade,  but  now  it  was  against  him 
that  that  bellowing  hatred  was  directed,  which 
tempted  him  to  fall  upon  his  mistress  and  beat 
her ;  for  in  such  carnal  passions,  where  respect  and 
esteem  for  the  loved  one  are  null,  brutality  always 
comes  to  the  surface  in  wrath  or  in  caresses.  He 
was  afraid  of  himself,  left  the  house  abruptly  for 
his  office,  and  as  he  walked  along  inveighed  bit- 
terly against  the  hfe  he  had  marked  out  for  him- 
self That  would  teach  him  to  put  himself  in  the 
power  of  such  a  woman  !  What  infamous,  ghastly 
insults  !  His  sisters,  his  mother,  no  one  was  spared. 
What !  had  he  not  even  the  right  to  go  and  see  his 
people?  Why,  in  what  sort  of  a  prison  had  he 
voluntarily  confined  himself?  And  the  whole 
course  of  their  Haison  passed  through  his  mind ; 
he  saw  how  the  Egyptian's  lovely  bare  arms,  twined 
about  his  neck  on  the  night  of  the  ball,  had  clung 
to  him  despotically  and  firmly,  isolating  him  from 
his  friends  and  his  family.  Now  his  mind  was 
made  up.  That  very  night,  come  what  may,  he 
would  start  for  Castelet. 


Sappho,  95 

Some  matters  of  business  despatched,  his  leave 
of  absence  obtained  at  headquarters,  he  returned 
home  early,  expecting  a  terrible  scene,  prepared 
for  anything,  even  a  rupture.  But  the  sweet  greet- 
ing with  which  Fanny  met  him,  her  heavy  eyes, 
her  cheeks,  softened  as  it  were  with  tears,  left  him 
hardly  the  courage  to  assert  his  will. 

"  I  am  going  to-night,"  he  said,  straightening 
himself  up. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  m!  ami.  Go  and  see 
your  mother,  and  above  all  — "  she  drew  nearer 
to  him  coaxingly — ''forget  how  naughty  I  was; 
I  love  you  too  much,  it  is  my  mania." 

All  the  rest  of  the  day,  while  she  packed  his 
trunk  with  coquettish  solicitude,  as  sweet  and  at- 
tractive as  in  the  early  days,  she  maintained  that 
penitent  attitude,  perhaps  with  the  idea  of  detain- 
ing him.  But  not  once  did  she  say  to  him, 
"Stay;  "  and  when,  at  the  last  moment,  all  hope 
having  vanished  in  face  of  the  final  preparations, 
she  nestled  close  to  her  lover,  trying  to  impregnate 
him  with  her  for  the  whole  time  of  his  journey  and 
his  absence,  her  farewell,  her  kiss  murmured  only 
this  :  "  Tell  me,  Jean,  you  are  not  angry  with  me, 
are  you  ?  " 

Oh !  the  intoxicating  joy  of  awaking  in  the 
morning  in  the  room  that  was  his  when  he  was  a 
child,  his  heart  still  warm  from  the  embraces  of  his 
dear  ones,  the  outpouring  of  joy  at  his  arrival,  of 
finding  in  the  same  place,  on  the  mosquito  bar  of 
his  little  bed,  the  same  shaft  of  light  that  he  had 


g6  Sappho. 

always  looked  for  when  he  awoke,  of  hearing  the 
cries  of  the  peacocks  on  their  perches,  the  creaking 
of  the  well-chain,  the  cattle  rushing  from  the  sheds 
with  hurrying  feet,  and,  when  he  had  thrown  his 
shutters  back  against  the  wall,  of  seeing  once  more 
that  lovely  warm  light  which  entered  the  room  in 
sheets,  as  if  the  floodgates  had  been  opened,  and 
that  marvellous  prospect  of  sloping  vineyards, 
cypresses,  olive  trees  and  gHstening  pine  woods, 
stretching  away  to  the  Rhone  beneath  a  deep, 
cloudless  sky,  without  a  fleck  of  mist  notwithstand- 
ing the  early  hour,  —  a  green  sky,  swept  all  night 
by  the  mistral,  which  still  filled  the  great  valley 
with  its  strong  cheery  breath. 

Jean  compared  that  awakening  to  those  in  Paris 
beneath  a  sky  as  murky  as  his  love,  and  felt  happy 
and  free.  He  went  downstairs.  The  house,  white 
with  sunlight,  was  still  asleep,  all  the  shutters 
closed  like  the  eyes  of  those  within ;  and  he  was 
glad  of  a  moment  of  soHtude  to  recover  himself, 
in  that  moral  convalescence  which  he  felt  was  just 
beginning  for  him. 

He  walked  a  few  steps  along  the  terrace,  took 
an  ascending  path  in  the  park  —  in  what  they 
called  the  park,  a  forest  of  pines  and  myrtles 
planted  at  random  on  the  rough  hill  of  Castelet, 
cut  by  irregular  paths  made  slippery  by  dry  pine 
needles.  His  dog.  Miracle,  very  old  and  lame, 
had  come  out  of  his  kennel,  and  followed  silently 
at  his  heels ;  how  often  they  had  taken  that  walk 
together  in  the  morning ! 

At  the  entrance  to  the  vineyards,  where  the  tall 


Sappho.  97 

cypresses  that  formed  the  line  of  demarcation  bent 
their  graceful  pointed  tops,  the  dog  hesitated ;  he 
knew  how  hard  the  thick  layer  of  sand  —  a  new 
remedy  for  the  phylloxera  with  which  the  consul 
was  experimenting  —  and  the  embankments  sup- 
porting the  terrace  would  be  for  his  poor  old 
paws.  The  joy  of  accompanying  his  master  turned 
the  scale  at  last,  however;  and  at  every  obstacle 
there  were  painful  struggles,  a  timid  little  whine, 
brief  halts,  and  the  awkward  antics  of  a  crab  on 
a  rock.  Jean  did  not  look  at  him,  being  entirely 
absorbed  by  the  new  alicant  plants,  of  which  his 
father  had  had  much  to  say  to  him  the  night  before. 
The  shoots  seemed  to  be  flourishing  in  the  smooth, 
glistening  sand.  At  last  the  poor  man  was  to  be  re- 
paid for  his  persistent  labors ;  the  Castelet  vintage 
would  still  live  when  La  Nerte,  L'Ermitage,  all  the 
famous  native  wines  of  the  South  were  dead  ! 

A  little  white  cap  suddenly  appeared  in  front 
of  him.  It  was  Divonne,  the  first  one  astir  in  the 
house ;  she  had  a  reaping-hook  in  her  hand,  and 
something  else  which  she  threw  away ;  and  her 
cheeks,  ordinarily  so  colorless,  were  dyed  with  a 
sudden  crimson  flush.  "Is  it  you,  Jean?  You 
frightened  me;  I  thought  it  was  your  father." 
She  recovered  her  self-possession  in  an  instant, 
and  kissed  him.     "Did  you  sleep  well?" 

"  Very  well,  aunt ;  but  why  did  you  dread  my 
father's  coming?" 

"Why?" 

She  picked  up  the  root  she  had  just  torn  from 
the  ground. 

7 


98  Sappho, 

"  The  consul  told  you,  did  n't  he,  that  this  time 
he  was  sure  of  success  ?  Well,  look !  there  's  the 
creature." 

Jean  saw  a  tiny  bit  of  yellowish  moss  buried  in 
the  wood,  the  imperceptible  mould  that  has 
brought  ruin  step  by  step  upon  entire  provinces ; 
and  it  seemed  an  ironical  freak  of  nature,  on  that 
glorious  morning,  in  that  vivifying  sunlight  —  that 
infinitesimal  object,  destructive  and  indestructible. 

"That's  the  beginning.  In  three  months  the 
whole  farm  will  be  destroyed,  and  your  father  will 
begin  all  over  again,  for  his  pride  is  at  stake. 
There  will  be  more  new  plants  and  new  remedies 
until  the  day  when  —  " 

A  despairing  gesture  completed  and  emphasized 
her  sentence. 

"  Really?  is  it  as  bad  as  that?  " 

"  Oh !  you  know  the  consul.  He  never  says  a 
word,  and  gives  me  the  money  for  the  month  as 
usual ;  but  I  see  that  he  's  preoccupied.  He  goes 
to  Avignon  and  Orange.  He  is  trying  to  raise 
money." 

"And  C^saire?  what  about  his  immersions?" 
the  young  man  asked  in  dismay. 

Thank  God,  everything  was  going  finely  in  that 
direction.  They  had  had  fifty  casks  of  wine  from 
the  last  crop ;  and  this  year  the  product  would  be 
twice  that.  In  view  of  his  success  the  consul  had 
surrendered  to  his  brother  all  the  vineyards  in  the 
plain,  which  had  hitherto  been  allowed  to  lie  fallow, 
with  long  hnes  of  dead  stumps  like  a  cemetery ;  and 
now  they  were  under  water  for  three  months. 


Sappho,  99 

And  the  Provencal,  proud  of  her  man's  work,  of 
her  Fenat,  pointed  out  to  Jean  from  their  elevated 
position  several  great  ponds  —  clairs  she  called 
them  —  kept  full  by  embankments  of  lime  as  on 
the  salt-marshes. 

"  Those  plants  will  bear  in  two  years ;  and  so 
will  Piboulette,  and  the  island  of  Lamotte,  which 
your  uncle  has  bought  without  telling  anybody. 
Then  we  shall  be  rich,  but  we  must  hold  hard  till 
then ;  every  one  must  contribute  and  sacrifice  him- 
self." 

She  talked  cheerfully  of  sacrifice,  like  a  woman 
who  has  ceased  to  wonder  at  it,  and  with  such 
contagious  enthusiasm  that  Jean,  impelled  by  a 
sudden  thought,  replied  in  the  same  tone :  "  We 
will  sacrifice  ourselves,  Divonne." 

That  very  day  he  wrote  to  Fanny  that  his 
parents  could  not  continue  his  allowance,  that  he 
should  be  reduced  to  his  salary  at  the  department, 
and  that,  under  those  conditions,  it  was  impossible 
for  them  to  live  together.  The  result  was  an 
earlier  separation  than  he  expected,  three  or  four 
years  before  his  anticipated  departure  from  France ; 
but  he  felt  sure  that  his  mistress  would  accept  those 
weighty  reasons,  and  that  she  would  take  pity 
upon  him  and  his  trouble,  would  assist  him  in 
that  painful  performance  of  a  bounden  duty. 

Was  it  really  a  sacrifice?  Was  he  not,  on  the 
contrary,  relieved  to  put  an  end  to  an  existence 
which  seemed  hateful  and  unhealthy  to  him,  es- 
pecially since  he  had  returned  to  nature,  to  his 
family,  to   simple   and   upright   affections?      His 


lOO  Sappho. 

letter  written,  without  great  effort  and  without 
pain,  he  relied  upon  the  virtuous  and  loyal  affec- 
tion of  the  honest  hearts  about  him,  upon  the  ex- 
ample of  that  father,  proudest  and  most  upright 
of  men ;  upon  the  innocent  smile  of  the  httle  holy 
women,  and  also  upon  that  boundless,  peaceful 
horizon,  the  health-giving  emanations  from  the 
mountains,  the  sky  above  him,  the  swift-flowing, 
eager  river,  to  defend  him  against  what  he  foresaw 
would  be  a  fierce  reply,  full  of  threats  and  extrava- 
gant language ;  for,  as  he  thought  of  his  passion, 
of  all  the  villainous  elements  of  which  it  was  com- 
posed, it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  just  recover- 
ing from  a  wasting  fever  of  the  sort  caused  by  the 
exhalations  from  swamp-lands. 

Five  or  six  days  passed  in  the  silence  that  fol- 
lows a  decisive  blow.  Morning  and  night  Jean 
went  to  the  post  and  returned  empty-handed, 
strangely  perturbed  in  mind.  What  was  she  do- 
ing? What  had  she  decided  upon,  and,  in  any 
event,  why  not  reply?  He  thought  of  nothing 
else.  And  at  night,  when  everybody  at  Castelet 
was  sleeping  soundly,  and  the  wind  crooning 
through  the  long  corridors,  he  and  Cesaire  dis- 
cussed it  in  his  little  room. 

"  She  's  likely  to  turn  up  here  !  "  the  uncle  de- 
clared ;  and  his  anxiety  was  greatly  increased  by 
the  fact  that  the  letter  of  rupture  contained  two 
notes,  on  six  months  and  a  year's  time,  to  adjust 
his  debt  and  the  interest  thereon.  How  could 
he  pay  those  notes?  How  could  he  explain  to 
Divonne?      He    shuddered    at  the  bare    thought, 


Sappho,  loi 

and  made  his  nephew  unhappy  when  he  remarked 
with  a  long  face,  as  he  shook  the  ashes  from  his 
pipe  at  the  conchision  of  their  midmghl-.iiiten'iew, 
**Well,  good-night;  at  all  events^  .what  you  have 
done  is  quite  right."  ,  . .' 

At  last  this  reply  arrived,  and  after  reading  the 
first  Hnes  —  "  My  dear  man,  I  have  not  written  to 
you  sooner,  because  I  was  determined  to  prove  to 
you  otherwise  than  by  words  how  well  I  under- 
stand you  and  love  you,"  —  Jean  stopped,  as  sur- 
prised as  a  man  who  hears  a  symphony  instead  of 
the  signal  for  capitulation  that  he  dreaded.  He 
turned  hastily  to  the  last  page,  where  he  read  — 
"'  remain  until  death  your  dog  who  loves  you, 
whom  you  can  beat  if  you  choose,  and  who  sends 
you  a  passionately  loving  kiss." 

So  she  had  not  received  his  letter !  But  when 
he  read  it  through,  line  by  line,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  it  proved  to  be  really  a  reply,  and  said  that 
Fanny  had  long  anticipated  the  bad  news  of  the 
trouble  at  Castelet,  which  would  hasten  the  inevi- 
table separation.  She  had  at  once  set  about  find- 
ing some  employment  in  order  that  she  might  no 
longer  remain  a  burden  to  him,  and  she  had  found 
a  position  as  manager  of  a  lodging-house  on 
Avenue  du  Bois  de  Boulogne,  in  the  service  of  a 
very  wealthy  lady.  A  hundred  francs  a  month 
with  board  and  lodging,  and  her  Sundays  free. 

*'  You  understand,  my  man,  one  day  a  week  to 
love  each  other ;  for  you  will  still  love  me,  won't 
you  ?  You  will  repay  me  for  the  great  effort  I  am 
making,  working  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  for 


I02  Sappho. 

the  night  and  day  slavery  which  I  accept,  with 
humiliations  which  you  cannot  imagine  and  which 
will  be  a  s<j-r:e".  t^ial  to  my  craze  for  independence. 
But  I  feel  a  most-  extraordinary  satisfaction  in  suf- 
feriiig  for  lovt^^of  you.  I  owe  you  so  much,  you 
have  taught  me  so  many  good,  honorable  things 
that  no  one  had  ever  mentioned  to  me !  Ah !  if 
we  had  only  met  sooner !  But  before  you  had 
learned  to  walk,  I  was  lying  in  men's  arms.  But 
not  one  of  them  all  can  boast  of  having  led  me  to 
make  such  a  resolution  in  order  to  keep  him  a 
little  longer.  Now,  return  when  you  choose,  the 
apartment  is  empty.  I  have  looked  over  all  my 
things;  that  was  the  hardest  of  all,  to  clean  out 
the  drawers  and  throw  away  the  souvenirs.  You 
will  find  only  my  portrait  left,  and  that  will  cost 
you  nothing ;  nothing  but  the  kind  glances  which 
I  beg  in  its  favor.  Ah!  m'  ami,  m'  ami!  How- 
ever, if  you  keep  my  Sunday  for  me,  and  my  little 
place  in  your  neck,  my  place,  you  know  —  "  And 
there  followed  loving  phrases,  cajoleries,  the  vo- 
luptuous wantonness  of  a  cat,  coupled  with  pas- 
sionate words  which  made  the  lover  rub  his  face 
against  the  glossy  paper,  as  if  the  warm  human 
caress  were  transmitted  by  it. 

'*  Does  n't  she  mention  my  notes?  "  asked  Uncle 
Cesaire,  timidly. 

"  She  sends  them  back  to  you.  You  can  repay 
her  when  you  are  rich." 

The  uncle  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief,  his  temples 
wrinkled  with  satisfaction,  and  with  portentous  grav- 
ity, with  his  strong  Southern  accent,  he  said,  — 


Sappho,  103 

"  Ah !  do  you  want  mc  to  tell  you  something  ? 
That  woman  's  a  saint !  " 

Then,  passing  to  another  line  of  thought,  with 
the  instability,  the  lack  of  logic  and  of  memory 
which  was  one  of  the  absurdities  of  his  character : 
"  And  such  passion,  my  boy,  such  fire  !  Why,  my 
mouth  is  all  parched  as  it  used  to  be  when  Courbe- 
baisse  read  me  his  letters  from  La  Mornas." 

Once  more  Jean  had  to  submit  to  the  story  of 
the  first  journey  to  Paris,  the  H6tel  Cujas  and 
Pellicule;  but  he  did  not  hear,  as  he  leaned  on 
the  sill  of  the  open  window,  in  the  peaceful  night 
bathed  by  a  full  moon,  so  bright  that  the  roosters 
were  deceived  and  hailed  it  as  the  break  of  day. 

So  this  redemption  by  love  of  which  poets  sing 
IS  a  reality !  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  sort  of 
pride  in  the  thought  that  all  those  great,  those 
illustrious  men  whom  Fanny  had  loved  before  his 
time,  far  from  regenerating  her,  had  made  her  more 
depraved,  whereas  he,  solely  by  the  power  of  his 
upright  nature,  might  perhaps  redeem  her  from 
vice  forever. 

He  was  grateful  to  her  for  having  devised  that 
middle  course,  that  semi-rupture  in  which  she 
would  acquire  the  new  habit  of  labor  so  hard  for 
her  indolent  nature;  and  he  wrote  her  the  next 
day  in  a  fatherly  tone,  the  tone  of  an  elderly  gentle- 
man, to  encourage  her  in  her  scheme  of  reforma- 
tion and  to  express  his  uneasiness  concerning  the 
quality  of  the  house  she  was  managing  and  the 
class  of  people  who  resorted  to  it;  for  he  dis- 
trusted her  indulgence  and   her  readiness  to  say, 


164  Sappho, 

as  she  submitted  to  his  will:  ''What  do  you  want? 
Is  this  right?" 

By  return  mail  Fanny,  with  the  docility  of  a  little 
girl,  drew  a  picture  of  her  lodging-house,  a  regular 
family  hotel  occupied  by  foreigners.  On  the  first 
floor  were  some  Peruvians,  father  and  mother, 
children  and  numerous  servants ;  on  the  second  a 
Russian  family  and  a  wealthy  Dutchman,  a  coral 
merchant.  The  chambers  on  the  third  were  let  to 
two  riders  from  the  Hippodrome,  Englishmen  of 
good  form,  very  coimne  il  fazit,  and  the  most  in- 
teresting little  family,  Mademoiselle  Minna  Vogel, 
a  zither-player  from  Stuttgart,  with  her  brother 
Leo,  a  poor  consumptive,  who  had  been  obliged  to 
break  off  his  studies  at  the  Paris  Conservatoire, 
and  whom  his  tall  sister  had  come  to  Paris  to 
take  care  of,  with  no  other  means  of  paying  for 
their  board  and  lodging  than  the  proceeds  of  a 
few  concerts. 

''The  most  touching  and  most  honorable  com- 
pany imaginable,  as  you  see,  my  dear  man.  I  my- 
self am  supposed  to  be  a  widow,  and  I  am  treated 
with  the  utmost  consideration.  Indeed  I  would 
not  suffer  it  to  be  otherwise ;  your  wife  must  be 
respected.  Pray  understand  me  when  I  say  '  your 
wife.'  I  know  that  you  will  go  away  some  day, 
that  I  shall  lose  you,  but  there  will  never  be 
another  after  you ;  I  shall  remain  yours  forever, 
retaining  the  taste  of  your  caresses  and  the  good 
instincts  you  have  aroused  in  me.  It's  very  ab- 
surd, isn't  it?  —  Sappho  virtuous!  Yes,  virtuous, 
when  you  are  no  longer  here ;   but  for  you  I  shall 


Sappho,  105 

remain  as  you  have  loved  me,  passionate  and  ar- 
dent.    I  adore  you !  " 

Jean  was  suddenly  attacked  with  a  feeling  of  in- 
tense depression  and  ennui.  These  returns  of  the 
prodigal  son,  after  the  first  joys  of  the  arrival,  the 
orgies  of  effusive  affection  and  fatted  calf,  are  al- 
ways poisoned  by  memories  of  the  associations  of 
the  wandering  life,  regret  for  the  bitter  husks  and 
for  the  indolent  flocks.  It  is  a  sort  of  disen- 
chantment with  persons  and  things,  which  seem 
suddenly  devoid  of  attraction  and  colorless.  The 
Provencal  winter  mornings  lost  their  bracing, 
health-giving  quality  for  him,  the  hunting  of  the 
beautiful  reddish-brown  otter  lost  its  attraction, 
and  the  wild-duck  shooting  in  old  Abrieu's  naye- 
chien.  The  wind  seemed  bitter  to  Jean,  the  water 
rough,  and  very  tedious  were  the  excursions  among 
the  inundated  vineyards,  with  his  uncle  explaining 
his  system  of  dams,  floodgates,  and  trenches. 

The  village,  which  he  viewed  for  the  first  few 
days  through  the  memories  of  his  former  experi- 
ences as  a  small  boy,  —  a  village  of  old  shanties, 
some  abandoned,  —  smelt  of  death  and  desolation 
like  an  Italian  village;  and  when  he  went  to  the 
post,  on  the  tottering  stone  step  of  every  door  he 
must  submit  to  the  tiresome  repetitions  of  all  the 
old  men,  twisted  like  trees  exposed  to  the  wind, 
with  their  arms  thrust  through  stocking  legs,  and 
of  the  old  women  with  chins  like  yellow  boxwood 
under  their  tight-fitting  caps,  with  little  eyes, 
gleaming  and  sparkling  like  lizards'  eyes  in  the 
crevices  of  old  walls. 


io6  Sappho, 

Always  the  same  lamentations  over  the  death  of 
the  vines,  the  end  of  the  madder,  the  disease  of  the 
mulberry-trees,  the  seven  plagues  of  Egypt  ruin- 
ing that  fair  land  of  Provence ;  and  to  avoid  them, 
he  sometimes  returned  by  way  of  the  steep  lanes 
that  skirt  the  old  walls  of  the  chateau  of  the  Popes, 
deserted  lanes  obstructed  by  underbrush,  by  the  tall 
Saint-Roch  grass,  useful  as  a  cure  for  ring-worm, 
extremely  well  placed  in  that  nook  out  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  in  the  shadow  of  the  immense  ruin  tower- 
ing over  the  road. 

Then  he  would  meet  the  cure  Malassagne,  on 
his  way  from  saying  mass,  coming  down  the  hill 
with  long,  excited  strides,  his  band  awry,  his  cas- 
sock held  up  with  both  hands  because  of  the  thorns 
and  the  weeds.  The  priest  would  stop  and  inveigh 
against  the  impiety  of  the  peasants,  the  infamous 
conduct  of  the  municipal  council ;  he  would  hurl 
his  malediction  at  the  fields,  cattle  and  men,  back- 
sliders who  no  longer  came  to  service,  who  buried 
their  dead  without  the  sacraments  and  treated 
their  own  ailments  with  magnetism  or  spiritual- 
ism, to  save  the  expense  of  a  priest  and  a  doctor. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  spirituaHsm !  that 's  what  the 
peasants  of  the  Comtat  are  coming  to  !  And  you 
expect  that  your  vines  won't  be  diseased  !  " 

Jean,  who  perhaps  had  a  letter  from  Fanny  open 
and  burning  in  his  pocket,  would  listen  with  an 
absent  expression,  escape  from  the  priest's  sermon 
as  quickly  as  possible,  return  to  Castelet,  and  en- 
sconce himself  in  a  cleft  in  the  cHff,  —  what 
the  Provencaux  call  a  cagnard,  —  sheltered  from  the 


Sappho.  107 

wind  that  blows  all  about  and  concentrating  the 
warmth  of  the  sun's  rays  reflected  from  the  rock. 

He  would  select  the  most  secluded  and  the  wild- 
est, overgrown  by  bramble-bushes  and  kermes  oaks, 
and  would  lie  on  the  ground  to  read  his  letter; 
and  gradually  the  subtle  odor  it  exhaled,  the 
caressing  words,  the  images  evoked  would  pro- 
duce a  sensuous  drunkenness  which  quickened  his 
pulse  and  created  an  hallucination  so  powerful  as 
to  cause  the  whole  landscape  to  vanish  like  useless 
stage-properties,  —  the  river,  the  clustered  islets, 
the  villages  in  the  hollows  of  the  little  alps,  the 
whole  sweep  of  the  vast  valley  where  the  fierce  gust 
of  wind  pursued  the  sunbeams  and  drove  them  in 
waves  before  it.  He  was  in  their  bedroom,  op- 
posite the  gray-roofed  station,  a  prey  to  the 
caresses,  the  fierce  passions  which  caused  them 
to  cling  to  each  other  with  the  convulsive  grasp 
of  a  drowning  man. 

Suddenly  he  would  hear  steps  in  the  path,  and 
limpid  laughter:  "There  he  is!"  His  sisters 
would  appear,  their  little  legs  bare  amid  the 
heather,  escorted  by  old  Miracle  as  proud  as  Luci- 
fer to  have  followed  his  master's  trail,  and  wag- 
ging his  tail  triumphantly;  but  Jean  would  send 
him  away  with  a  kick,  and  decline  the  offers  to 
play  at  hide-and-seek  or  tag,  which  they  timidly 
put  forward.  And  yet  he  loved  them,  his  little 
twin-sisters  who  doted  on  their  big  brother  always 
so  far  away ;  he  had  become  a  child  for  their  ben- 
efit as  soon  as  he  arrived,  and  he  was  amused  by 
the  contrast  between  the  pre-tty  creatures,  born  at 


io8  Sappho, 

the  same  time  and  so  dissimilar.  One  was  tall  and 
dark,  with  curly  hair,  of  a  mystic  turn  and  head- 
strong ;  it  was  she  who  had  conceived  the  idea  of 
the  boat,  excited  by  what  Malassagne  the  cure  had 
read  to  her ;  and  that  little  Marie  the  Egyptian  had 
drawn  into  her  scheme  the  fair-haired  Marthe,  who 
was  a  gentle,  yielding  creature,  resembling  her 
mother  and  brother. 

But  what  a  hateful  annoyance  it  was,  while  he 
was  living  amid  his  memories,  to  have  those  in- 
nocent caresses  mingling  with  the  dainty  perfume 
that  his  mistress's  letter  left  upon  him.  *'  No,  leave 
me ;  I  must  work."  And  he  would  return  to  the 
house,  intending  to  shut  himself  up  in  his  room, 
when  his  father  would  call  to  him  as  he  passed,  — 
"  Is  it  you,  Jean  — just  listen  to  this." 
The  mail  hour  brought  new  cause  for  depression 
to  that  man,  naturally  of  a  gloomy  turn  of  mind, 
and  retaining  from  his  life  in  the  East  a  habit 
of  solemn  silence,  broken  abruptly  by  reminis- 
cences, —  "  when  I  was  consul  at  Hong-Kong,"  — 
which  blazed  out  like  the  sparks  from  old  stumps 
on  the  fire.  While  he  listened  to  his  father  read- 
ing and  discussing  the  morning  papers,  Jean  would 
gaze  at  Caoudal's  Sappho  on  the  mantel,  her  arms 
around  her  knees,  her  lyre  by  her  side,  —  the 
WHOLE  LYRE,  —  a  bronze  copy  purchased  twenty 
years  before  at  the  time  of  the  improvements  at 
Castelet;  and  that  bronze,  which  made  him  sick 
at  heart  in  the  shop-windows  in  Paris,  aroused  an 
amorous  emotion  in  him,  made  him  long  to  kiss 
those  shoulders,  to   unclasp  those  cold,   polished 


Sappho,  109 

hands,  to  hear  her  say  to  him,  '^  Sappho  to  you, 
but  to  none  but  you  !  " 

The  tempting  figure  rose  before  him  when  he 
went  out,  walked  with  him,  doubled  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  on  the  broad,  pretentious  staircase. 
The  pendulum  of  the  old  clock  beat  time  to  the 
name  of  Sappho,  the  wind  whispered  it  through 
the  long,  cold,  flagged  corridors  of  that  summer 
dwelling ;  he  found  it  in  all  the  books  of  that  coun- 
try hbrary,  old  volumes  with  red  edges,  where  the 
crumbs  of  his  luncheons  as  a  child  still  hngered  in 
the  stitching.  And  that  persistent  souvenir  of  his 
mistress  pursued  him  even  to  his  mother's  bed- 
room, where  Divonne  was  arranging  the  invalid's 
lovely  white  hair,  combing  it  back  from  her  face, 
which  had  retained  its  placidity  and  its  bright 
color  notwithstanding  her  constant  and  varied 
suffering. 

"  Ah  !  here  's  our  Jean,"  the  mother  would  say. 
But  his  aunt,  with  her  bare  neck,  her  little  cap, 
her  sleeves  turned  back  for  the  purposes  of  that 
invalid's  toilet  of  which  she  alone  had  charge,  re- 
minded him  of  other  awakenings,  recalled  his  mis- 
tress again,  leaping  out  of  bed  amid  the  smoke 
of  her  first  cigarette.  He  hated  himself  for  such 
thoughts,  especially  in  that  chamber !  But  what 
could  he  do  to  avoid  them? 

"  Our  child  is  no  longer  the  same,  sister,"  Ma- 
dame Gaussin  would  say  sadly.  "  What 's  the  mat- 
ter with  him?"  And  they  would  try  together  to 
divine  the  reason.  Divonne  cudgelled  her  ingen- 
uous brain,  she  would  have  hked  to  question  the 


1 10  Sappho, 

young  man ;  but  he  seemed  to  shun  her  now,  to 
avoid  being  alone  with  her. 

One  morning,  having  watched  him,  she  surprised 
him  in  his  cagnard,  trembling  in  the  fever  of  his 
letters  and  his  bad  dreams.  He  rose,  with  a 
gloomy  expression.  She  detained  him,  made  him 
sit  down  beside  her  on  the  warm  stone.  '*  Don't  you 
love  me  any  more?  Am  I  no  longer  your  Divonne 
to  whom  you  used  to  tell  all  your  troubles  ?  " 

"  Why  yes,  why  yes,"  he  stammered,  disturbed 
by  her  affectionate  manner,  and  averting  his  eyes 
so  that  she  might  not  see  in  them  any  suggestion 
of  what  he  had  just  been  reading,  —  love-calls,  des- 
perate shrieks,  the  delirious  utterances  of  passion 
at  a  distance.  '*  What  is  the  matter  with  you? 
Why  are  you  so  depressed?"  murmured  Divonne, 
coaxing  him  with  voice  and  hands,  as  one  deals 
with  children.  He  was  her  child  in  a  certain  sense  ; 
in  her  eyes  he  was  still  ten  years  old,  the  age  at 
which  little  men  are  emancipated. 

He,  already  inflamed  by  his  letter,  quivered  un- 
der the  disturbing  fascination  of  that  lovely  body 
so  near  his  own,  of  those  lips  warm  with  the  blood 
quickened  by  the  fresh  breeze  that  disarranged 
her  hair  and  sent  it  flying  about  over  her  forehead 
in  dainty  curls  after  the  Parisian  fashion.  And 
Sappho's  lessons — "All  women  are  the  same;  in 
the  presence  of  a  man  they  have  but  one  idea  in 
their  heads  "  —  made  the  peasant  woman's  happy 
smile  and  the  gesture  with  which  she  detained  him 
to  listen  to  her  affectionate  questions  an  incitement 
of  his  passions. 


Sappho,  1 1 1 

Suddenly  he  felt  the  blinding  rush  of  an  evil 
temptation  to  his  brain;  and  the  effort  he  made 
to  resist  it  shook  him  with  a  convulsive  shudder. 
Divonne  was  dismayed  to  see  him  so  pale,  with  his 
teeth  chattering.  "Why,  the  poor  boy  —  he  has 
the  fever ! "  With  an  affectionate  unreflecting 
movement,  she  untied  the  broad  handkerchief  that 
she  wore  over  her  shoulders  to  put  it  around  his 
neck ;  but  she  was  suddenly  seized,  enveloped,  and 
felt  the  burning  pressure  of  a  frantic  kiss  on  her 
neck  and  shoulders,  on  all  the  gleaming  flesh  sud- 
denly laid  bare  to  the  sunlight.  She  had  no  time 
to  cry  out  nor  to  defend  herself,  perhaps  not  even 
a  clear  perception  of  what  had  taken  place.  "  Ah  ! 
I  am  mad  —  I  am  mad  !  "  He  rushed  away  and 
was  already  far  off  on  the  moor,  where  the  stones 
rolled  viciously  beneath  his  feet. 

At  breakfast  that  day  Jean  announced  that  he 
must  go  away  that  same  evening,  being  summoned 
to  Paris  by  an  order  from  the  Minister. 

"  Go  away  already !  Why,  you  said  —  You 
have  only  just  come  !  " 

There  were  outcries  and  entreaties.  But  he 
could  not  remain  with  them,  since  Sappho's  agitat- 
ing, corrupting  influence  persistently  intervened 
between  him  and  all  those  loving  hearts.  More- 
over, had  he  not  made  the  greatest  of  all  sacrifices 
to  them  by  abandoning  his  life  a  deux?  The  defin- 
itive rupture  would  be  consummated  a  little  later ; 
and  then  he  would  return  to  embrace  them  all 
and  give  his  heart  to  them  without  shame  or  em- 
barrassment. 


112  Sappho, 

It  was  late  at  night,  the  family  had  retired,  and 
the  house  was  dark  when  Cesaire  returned  after 
accompanying  his  nephew  to  the  train  at  Avignon. 
After  he  had  fed  the  horse  and  glanced  at  the  sky 
—  the  glance  of  men  who  live  by  the  products  of 
the  soil,  to  see  what  the  weather  promises  to  be  — 
he  was  about  to  enter  the  house,  when  he  saw  a 
white  form  on  a  bench  on  the  terrace. 

"  Is  that  you,  Divonne?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was  waiting  for  you." 

Being  very  busy  all  day,  necessarily  separated 
from  her  Fenat,  whom  she  adored,  she  had  the 
evening  for  talking  with  him  and  for  a  httle  walk 
together.  Was  it  because  of  the  brief  scene  be- 
tween herself  and  Jean,  which,  upon  thinking  it 
over,  she  understood  even  better  than  she  would 
have  liked,  or  was  it  because  of  the  emotion 
aroused  by  watching  the  poor  mother  weep  silently 
all  day?  Whatever  the  cause  her  voice  trembled 
and  her  mind  was  disturbed  to  an  extraordinary 
degree  in  a  person  usually  so  calm  and  devoted 
to  her  duty.  ''  Do  you  know  why  he  left  us  so 
suddenly?"  She  did  not  beheve  in  that  story 
about  the  minister,  suspecting  rather  some  un- 
worthy attachment  which  was  drawing  him  away 
from  his  family.  There  were  so  many  perils,  such 
fatal  associations  in  that  depraved  Paris ! 

Cesaire,  who  could  not  conceal  anything  from 
her,  admitted  that  there  was  a  woman  in  Jean's 
life,  but  an  excellent  creature,  incapable  of  aliena- 
ting him  from  his  own  people ;  and  he  talked  about 
her  devotion,  the  affecting  letters  she  wrote,  lauded 


Sappho.  \  I 


o 


especially  her  heroic  resolution  to  work,  which 
seemed  perfectly  natural  to  the  peasant  woman. 
*'  For  after  all  one  must  work  to  live." 

"  Not  that  sort  of  women,"  said  C^saire. 

"  Then  you  mean  that  Jean  is  living  with  a  good- 
for-nothing  ?     And  you  have  been  to  their  house  ?  " 

"  I  swear  to  you,  Divonne,  that  there  is  n't  a  purer 
or  more  virtuous  woman  on  earth  than  she  's  been 
since  she  knew  him.    Love  has  rehabilitated  her." 

But  his  words  were  too  long ;  Divonne  did  not 
understand  them.  To  her  mind  that  woman  be- 
longed in  the  riff-raff  which  she  called  "  bad  wo- 
men," and  the  thought  that  her  Jean  was  the  victim 
of  such  a  creature  angered  her.  Suppose  the  con- 
sul should  get  an  inkling  of  it ! 

Cesaire  tried  to  calm  her,  assured  her,  by  all  the 
wrinkles  in  his  somewhat  dissipated,  good-humored 
face,  that  at  the  boy's  age  one  could  not  do  with- 
out women. 

^^Pardi!  then  let  him  marry,"  she  said  with 
affecting  earnestness. 

"  At  all  events,  they  're  no  longer  together ;  it  is 
all  right  —  " 

"  Listen,  Cesaire,"  she  rejoined  in  a  serious  tone, 
"  you  know  our  old  saying :  '  The  misfortune  al- 
ways lasts  longer  than  the  man  who  causes  it.*  If 
what  you  say  is  true,  if  Jean  has  drawn  that  woman 
out  of  the  mud,  perhaps  he  has  soiled  himself  in 
that  unpleasant  task.  Possibly  he  may  have  made 
her  better  and  more  virtuous,  but  who  knows  if 
the  evil  that  was  in  her  has  n't  spoiled  our  child 
to  the  very  core?" 

8 


114  Sappho. 

They  were  walking  back  toward  the  terrace. 
Night,  peaceful  and  clear,  reigned  over  the  whole 
silent  valley,  where  nothing  was  ahve  save  the 
glistening  moonlight,  the  rolling  river,  the  ponds 
lying  hke  pools  of  silver.  Everywhere  profound 
tranquillity,  a  sense  of  remoteness,  the  untroubled 
repose  of  dreamless  sleep.  Suddenly  the  up  train 
rumbled  heavily  along  the  bank  of  the  Rhone  at 
full  speed. 

'*  Oh  !  that  Paris  ! "  exclaimed  Divonne,  shaking 
her  fist  at  the  foe  upon  whom  the  provinces  vent 
all  their  wrath,  "■  that  Paris  !  —  to  think  of  what  we 
give  it  and  what  it  sends  back  to  us !  " 


Sappho,  115 


VII. 

It  was  cold  and  foggy  one  dark  afternoon  at 
four  o'clock,  even  on  the  broad  Avenue  des 
Champs-£lys6es,  where  the  carriages  drove  hur- 
riedly by  with  a  dull,  muffled  roar.  Jean  was 
hardly  able  to  read,  at  the  end  of  a  small  garden, 
the  gate  of  which  stood  open,  these  words  in  gilt 
letters,  high  in  the  air,  over  the  entresol  of  a  house 
of  very  comfortable  and  placid  cottage-like  aspect : 
Furnished  Apartments,  Family  Hotel,  A  coupe 
was  waiting  at  the  curbstone. 

Opening  the  door,  Jean  at  once  saw  her  whom 
he  sought,  sitting  in  the  light  from  the  window,  and 
turning  the  leaves  of  a  huge  account  book,  oppo- 
site another  woman,  tall  and  fashionably  dressed, 
with  a  handkerchief  and  a  small  shoppingrbag  in 
her  hands. 

"What  do  you  wish,  monsieur?"  Fanny  rec- 
ognized him,  sprang  to  her  feet  in  amazement, 
and  said  in  an  undertone  as  she  passed  her  com- 
panion, "  It 's  the  little  one."  The  other  eyed 
Gaussin  from  head  to  foot  with  the  charming  ex- 
pert sang-froid  \\i\\\<:\\  experience  imparts,  and  said, 
quite  loud,  without  the  slightest  ceremony :  "  Em- 
brace, children  —  I  am  not  looking."  Then  she 
took  Fanny's  place  and  began  to  verify  her  figures. 

They  held  each  other's  hands  and  were  whis- 


1 1 6  Sappho, 

pering  meaningless  phrases:  '' How  are  you ? "  — 
*'  Very  well,  thanks."  —  "  You  must  have  left  last 
night?"  But  the  trembling  of  their  voices  gave 
the  words  their  true  meaning.  As  they  sat  to- 
gether on  the  sofa,  Fanny,  recovering  her  self- 
possession  to  some  extent,  asked  him  under  her 
breath:  "Don't  you  recognize  my  employer? 
You  have  seen  her  before,  at  Dechelette's  ball,  as 
a  Spanish  bride.  The  bride's  freshness  has  worn 
off  a  little,  eh?" 

"Then  it's—?" 

"  Rosario  Sanches,  de  Potter's  mistress." 

This  Rosario  —  Rosa  was  her  pet  name,  written 
on  the  mirrors  of  all  the  night  restaurants  and 
always  with  some  obscenity  underneath  —  was  a 
former  "  chariot  lady"  at  the  Hippodrome,  fa- 
mous in  the  world  of  pleasure  for  her  cynical  disso- 
luteness and  for  the  blows  of  her  tongue  and  her 
whip  and  much  sought  after  by  club  men,  whom 
she  drove  as  she  did  her  horses. 

A  Spaniard  from  Oran,  she  had  been  beautiful 
rather  than  pretty,  and  still  produced  by  artificial 
light  considerable  effect  with  her  black  eyes 
touched  with  bistre,  and  her  eyebrows  connected 
as  by  a  hyphen ;  but  even  in  that  dim  light  her 
fifty  years  were  plainly  marked  upon  a  lifeless, 
harsh  face,  with  a  rough  yellow  skin  like  a  lemon 
of  her  native  country.  She  had  been  an  intimate 
friend  of  Fanny  Legrand  for  years,  had  been  her 
chaperone  in  gallantry,  and  the  mere  mention  of 
her  name  alarmed  the  lover. 

Fanny,  who  understood    the    trembling    of   his 


Sappho,  117 

arm,  tried  to  excuse  herself.  To  whom  was  she 
to  apply  to  find  employment?  She  was  very 
much  perplexed.  Besides,  Rosa  was  leading  a 
respectable  life  now ;  she  was  rich,  very  rich,  and 
lived  at  her  mansion  on  Avenue  de  Villiers  or  at 
her  villa  at  Enghien,  receiving  a  few  old  friends, 
but  only  one  lover,  the  same  old  one,  her  musician. 

"De  Potter?"  said  Paul;  **  I  thought  he  was 
married." 

"  So  he  is,  married  and  has  children ;  it  seems 
indeed  that  his  wife  is  pretty,  but  that  did  n't  pre- 
vent his  coming  back  to  the  old  flame ;  and  if  you 
could  see  how  she  talks  to  him,  how  she  treats 
him.  Ah!  he's  badly  bitten,  I  tell  you."  She 
pressed  his  hand  in  loving  reproof.  At  that 
moment  the  lady  looked  up  from  her  book  and 
addressed  her  bag,  which  was  jumping  about  at 
the  end  of  its  ribbon,  — 

''  Just  keep  quiet,  will  you !  "  Then  to  the 
housekeeper  in  a  tone  of  command :  *'  Give  me  a 
piece  of  sugar  quickly  for  Bichito." 

Fanny  rose,  brought  the  sugar  and  held  it  to 
the  opening  of  the  reticule,  with  an  abundance  of 
flattering,  childish  talk.  "■  Just  look  at  the  pretty 
creature !  "  she  said  to  her  lover,  pointing  to  a 
sort  of  fat  lizard  surrounded  with  cotton-wool,  a 
deformed,  scaly  beast,  crested  and  dentelated, 
with  a  hooded  head  above  a  mass  of  shivering, 
gelatinous  flesh ;  a  chameleon  sent  from  Algeria 
to  Rosa,  who  protected  it  from  the  Parisian  winter 
by  care  and  warmth.  She  loved  it  as  she  had 
never  loved  any  man;   and  Jean  readily  divined 


ii8  Sappho. 

from  Fanny's  sycophantic  endearments  the  place 
that  the  horrid  beast  occupied  in  the  house. 

The  lady  closed  the  book  and  prepared  to  take 
her  leave.  "  Not  very  bad  for  the  second  fortnight. 
But  be  careful  about  the  candles." 

She  cast  a  proprietress's  glance  around  the  little 
salon,  which  was  very  neat  and  orderly  with  its 
plush-covered  furniture,  blew  a  little  dust  from  the 
plant  on  the  table,  and  pointed  out  a  rent  in  the 
window-curtain ;  after  which  she  said  to  the  young 
people  with  a  cunning  leer :  "  No  nonsense,  you 
know,  my  children ;  the  house  is  perfectly  respect- 
able ;  "  and  entering  the  carriage  which  was  waiting 
at  the  door,  she  went  to  take  her  drive  in  the  Bois. 

"Do  you  suppose  that  isn't  exasperating?" 
said  Fanny.  "  I  have  them  on  my  back,  either 
her  or  her  mother,  twice  a  week.  The  mother 's 
even  worse,  more  horrible  looking.  I  must  love 
you  pretty  well,  you  see,  to  stay  on  in  this  bar- 
rack. —  Well,  you  're  here  at  last,  I  have  you  once 
more !  ,  I  was  so  afraid."  And  she  held  him  in 
her  arms  a  long  while,  standing,  lips  against  lips, 
assuring  herself  by  the  quivering  of  the  kiss  that 
he  was  still  all  hers.  But  people  were  going  and 
coming  in  the  hall;  they  had  to  be  on  their  guard. 
When  they  had  brought  the  lamp,  she  seated  her- 
self in  her  usual  place,  a  piece  of  needlework  in  her 
hands ;  he  sat  quite  near  her,  as  if  making  a  call. 

"Am  I  not  changed,  eh?  This  is  not  much 
like  me,  is  it?" 

She  pointed  with  a  smile  to  her  needle,  which 
she  handled  with  the  awkwardness  of  a  little  girl. 


Sappho.  119 

She  had  always  detested  needlework ;  a  book,  her 
piano,  her  cigarette,  or,  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up, 
cooking  some  dainty  little  dish  —  she  had  never 
done  any  other  work  than  that.  But  what  could 
she  do  here?  She  could  not  think  of  touching 
the  piano  in  the  salon,  as  she  was  obliged  to  stay 
in  the  office  all  day.  Novels?  She  knew  many 
more  interesting  stories  than  they  had  to  tell.  In 
default  of  the  prohibited  cigarette,  she  had  taken 
up  that  piece  of  lace,  which  kept  her  fingers  busy 
and  left  her  free  to  think,  and  she  understood  now 
the  taste  of  women  for  such  trivial  employments, 
which  she  formerly  despised. 

And  while  she  dropped  and  picked  up  her 
stitches  laughingly,  with  the  attention  of  inexperi- 
ence, Jean  watched  her,  fresh  and  blooming  in 
her  simple  dress,  her  straight,  slender  neck,  her 
hair  combed  smooth  on  her  graceful  classic  head, 
and  such  a  sedate,  virtuous  air !  Without,  a  con- 
stant stream  of  fashionable  courtesans,  amid  luxu- 
rious surroundings,  perched  high  in  air  on  their 
phaetons,  rolled  down  the  avenue  toward  the 
noisy  Paris  of  the  boulevards ;  and  Fanny  seemed 
to  feel  no  regret  for  that  ostentatious,  triumphant 
vice  in  which  she  might  have  taken  her  part,  and 
which  she  had  disdained  for  him.  Provided  that 
he  agreed  to  see  her  from  time  to  time,  she  gladly 
accepted  her  life  of  slavery,  and  even  discovered 
an  amusing  side  to  it. 

All  the  boarders  adored  her.  The  women, 
foreigners  devoid  of  taste,  consulted  her  before 
purchasing   their   dresses;    she  gave  singing  les- 


120  Sappho. 

sons  in  the  morning  to  the  oldest  of  the  little 
Peruvians,  and  she  gave  advice,  concerning  books 
to  read  and  plays  to  see,  to  the  gentlemen,  who 
treated  her  with  the  utmost  consideration  and  at- 
tention, —  one  in  particular,  the  Dutchman  on  the 
second  floor.  "  He  sits  right  where  you  are  and 
gazes  at  me  in  rapt  contemplation  until  I  say  to 
him,  '  Kuyper,  you  annoy  me.'  Then  he  replies, 
'  Pien,'  and  goes  away.  It  was  he  who  gave  me  this 
little  coral  brooch.  It 's  worth  about  a  hundred 
sous,  you  see ;  I  took  it  to  avoid  discussion." 

A  waiter  entered,  carrying  a  salver  which  he 
placed  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  pushing  back  the 
plant  a  little  way.  "  I  eat  here  all  by  myself,  an 
hour  before  the  table  d'hote^  She  selected  two 
dishes  from  the  long  and  varied  menu.  The 
manager  was  entitled  to  only  two  dishes  and  the 
soup.  ''  She  must  be  a  stingy  creature,  that  Ro- 
sario !  However,  I  prefer  to  eat  here ;  I  don't 
have  to  talk,  and  I  read  over  your  letters,  which 
are  good  company  for  me." 

She  interrupted  herself  again  to  procure  a  table- 
cloth and  napkins;  at  every  moment  somebody 
called  upon  her:  there  were  orders  to  give,  a 
closet  to  be  opened,  a  requisition  to  fill.  Jean 
realized  that  he  would  be  in  her  way  if  he  re- 
mained longer;  then,  too,  they  were  bringing  in 
her  dinner,  and  it  was  so  pitiful,  that  little  soup- 
tureen  with  one  portion  smoking  on  the  table, 
causing  the  same  thought  to  pass  through  both 
their  minds,  the  same  regret  for  their  former 
tete-a-tetes! 


Sappho,  121 

"  Until  Sunday,  until  Sunday,"  she  murmured 
low,  as  she  sent  him  away.  And  as  they  could 
not  embrace  because  of  the  servants  and  boarders 
going  up  and  down  the  stairs,  she  took  his  hand 
and  held  it  long  against  her  heart,  as  if  to  force 
the  caress  in. 

All  the  evening,  all  night  he  thought  of  her, 
suffering  in  her  humiliating  slavery  to  that  trollop 
and  her  fat  lizard ;  then  the  Dutchman  disturbed 
him  also,  and  until  Sunday  he  hardly  lived.  In 
reality  that  semi-rupture  which  was  to  pave  the 
way  without  a  shock  for  the  end  of  their  liaison, 
was  to  her  the  blow  of  the  pruning-hook  which 
gives  renewed  life  to  the  exhausted  tree.  They 
wrote  each  other  almost  every  day,  such  loving 
notes  as  are  produced  by  the  impatience  of  lovers ; 
or  else  there  was  a  pleasant  chat  in  her  office, 
after  leaving  the  department,  during  her  hour  for 
needlework. 

She  had  spoken  of  him  in  the  house  as  *'  a  rela- 
tive of  mine,"  and  under  cover  of  that  vague  de- 
scription he  could  come  occasionally  and  pass  the 
evening  in  the  salon,  a  thousand  leagues  from 
Paris.  He  knew  the  Peruvian  family  with  its  in- 
numerable young  ladies,  decked  out  in  dazzling 
colors,  arranged  around  the  salon  for  all  the  world 
like  macaws  on  their  perches ;  he  listened  to  the 
zither  of  Mademoiselle  Minna  Vogel,  begirt  with 
flowers  like  a  hop-pole,  and  saw  her  sickly,  voice- 
less brother  passionately  following  the  rhythm  of  the 
music  with  his  head  and  running  his  fingers  over 
an  imaginary  clarinet,  the  only  kind  he  was  allowed 


122  Sappho. 

to  play.  He  played  whist  with  Fanny's  Dutch- 
man, a  stout,  bald-headed  dolt,  of  miserly  aspect, 
who  had  sailed  over  all  the  seas  on  the  globe,  and, 
when  he  was  asked  for  some  facts  concerning 
Australia,  where  he  had  passed  a  number  of 
months,  replied,  rolling  his  eyes,  ''  Guess  how 
much  potatoes  are  in  Melbourne?"  for  he  had 
been  impressed  by  that  single  fact  and  no  other,  the 
high  price  of  potatoes  in  every  country  he  visited, 

Fanny  was  the  soul  of  these  occasions;  she 
talked,  sang,  played  the  well-informed  and  worldly 
Parisian ;  and  such  traces  as  her  manners  retained 
of  Bohemia  or  of  the  studio  either  escaped  the 
notice  of  those  exotic  creatures  or  seemed  to 
them  the  acme  of  good  form.  She  dazzled  them 
with  her  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  famous 
names  in  art  and  literature,  gave  the  Russian  lady, 
who  doted  on  Dejoie's  works,  interesting  facts  con- 
cerning the  novelist's  manner  of  writing,  the  num- 
ber of  cups  of  coffee  he  absorbed  in  one  night,  the 
exact  figures  of  the  ridiculous  amount  the  pub- 
lishers of  Cenderinette  had  paid  him  for  the  book 
that  made  their  fortunes.  And  his  mistress's  suc- 
cess made  Gaussin  so  proud  that  he  forgot  to  be 
jealous  and  would  willingly  have  attested  the  truth 
of  her  words  if  anybody  had  cast  a  doubt  upon 
them. 

While  he  gazed  admiringly  at  her  in  that  peace- 
ful salon  lighted  by  shaded  lamps,  as  she  served 
the  tea,  played  accompaniments  for  the  young 
ladies  or  gave  them  advice  like  an  older  sister, 
there  was  a  strange  fascination  for  him  in  fancying 


Sappho,  123 

her  to  himself  in  very  different  guise,  when  she 
would  arrive  at  his  house  the  following  Sunday- 
morning,  drenched  and  shivering,  and  without 
even  going  near  the  fire,  which  was  blazing  in  her 
honor,  would  hurriedly  undress  and  creep  into  the 
great  bed  beside  him.  Then  what  embraces,  what 
caresses,  wherein  the  self-restraint  of  the  whole 
week  would  have  its  revenge,  the  being  deprived 
of  each  other  which  kept  alive  the  passion  of  their 
love. 

The  hours  would  pass,  would  run  together  con- 
fusedly; they  would  not  stir  from  the  bed  until 
night.  There  was  nothing  to  tempt  them  else- 
where ;  no  entertainment,  no  one  to  see,  not  even 
the  Hettemas,  who  had  decided  to  live  in  the 
country  for  economy's  sake.  Their  little  lunch 
prepared  beside  the  bed,  they  would  listen,  un- 
heeding, to  the  uproar  of  the  Parisian  Sunday 
splashing  through  the  street,  the  whistling  of  the 
locomotives,  the  rumbling  of  loaded  cabs;  and 
the  rain  falling  in  great  drops  on  the  zinc  of  the 
balcony,  with  the  precipitate  beating  of  their 
hearts,  marked  time  for  that  absence  of  life,  ob- 
livious of  the  passing  hours,  until  twilight. 

Then  the  gas,  lighted  across  the  street,  would 
cast  a  pale  gleam  on  the  hangings ;  they  must  rise 
and  dress,  as  Fanny  must  be  at  home  at  seven. 
In  the  half-light  of  the  bedroom,  all  her  weari- 
ness, all  her  heart-sickness  returned,  heayier  and 
more  cruel  than  ever,  as  she  put  on  her  boots,  still 
damp  from  her  long  walk,  her  skirts,  her  manager's 
dress,  the  black  uniform  of  poor  women. 


it  24  Sappho, 

And  her  chagrin  was  intensified  by  the  things 
about  her  that  she  loved,  the  furniture,  the  Httle 
dressing-room  of  the  happy  days.  She  would  tear 
herself  away  at  last :  "  Let  us  go !  "  and,  that 
they  might  remain  together  longer,  Jean  would 
accompany  her;  arm-in-arm  they  would  walk 
slowly  up  Avenue  de  Champs-Elysees,  where 
the  double  row  of  lamps,  with  the  Arc  de  Tri- 
omphe  rising  out  of  the  darkness  in  the  distance, 
and  two  or  three  stars  twinkling  in  a  narrow  bit  of 
sky,  counterfeited  the  background  of  a  diorama. 
At  the  corner  of  Rue  Pergolese,  very  near  the 
lodging-house,  she  would  raise  her  veil  for  a  last 
kiss,  and  would  leave  him  there  bewildered,  dis- 
gusted with  his  apartments,  to  which  he  returned 
as  late  as  possible,  cursing  poverty,  and  almost 
angry  with  the  people  at  Castelet  on  account  of 
the  sacrifice  he  was  making  for  them. 

They  dragged  through  two  or  three  months  of 
that  existence,  which  at  last  became  absolutely  in- 
tolerable, as  Jean  had  been  obliged  to  make  his 
visits  less  frequent  because  of  the  gossiping  of 
servants,  and  Fanny  was  more  and  more  exasper- 
ated by  the  avarice  of  the  Sanches  family,  mother 
and  daughter.  She  thought  in  silence  of  setting 
up  their  little  household  anew,  and  felt  that  her 
lover  too  was  nearing  the  end  of  his  endurance, 
but  she  preferred  that  he  should  speak  first. 

One  Sunday  in  April  Fanny  made  her  appear- 
ance dressed  more  elaborately  than  usual,  in  a 
round  hat  and  a  spring  dress,  very  simple  —  they 


Sappho,  125 

were  not  rich  —  but  fitted  perfectly  to  her  grace- 
ful figure. 

"  Get  up  quickly;  we  are  going  to  lunch  in  the 
country." 

"In  the  country?" 

"  Yes,  at  Enghien,  at  Rosa's.  She  invites  us 
both." 

He  said  no  at  first,  but  she  insisted.  Rosa 
would  never  forgive  a  refusal.  "You  can  afford 
to  do  it  for  my  sake.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  do 
enough." 

It  was  on  the  shore  of  the  lake  at  Enghien,  with 
a  broad  lawn  in  front  extending  to  a  little  inlet 
where  several  yawls  and  gondolas  rocked  at  their 
moorings ;  a  large  chalet,  beautifully  decorated 
and  furnished ;  the  ceilings  and  glass  panels  re- 
flecting the  sparkling  water  and  the  magnificent 
tall  hedges  of  a  park  already  quivering  with  early 
verdure  and  lilacs  in  flower.  The  correct  hveries, 
the  paths  where  not  even  a  wisp  of  straw  could  be 
seen,  did  honor  to  the  twofold  superintendence  of 
Rosario  and  old  lady  Pilar. 

The  house  party  were  at  table  when  they  ar- 
rived, a  false  direction  having  caused  them  to  go 
astray  around  the  lake,  through  lanes  between 
high  garden  walls.  Jean's  discomposure  reached 
its  climax  at  the  cold  reception  accorded  them 
by  the  mistress  of  the  house,  who  was  in  a  rage 
because  they  had  kept  her  waiting,  and  at  the  ex- 
traordinary aspect  of  the  old  hags  to  whom  Rosa 
presented  him  in  her  van-driver's  voice.  Three 
"  ^l^gantes,"  as  the  illustrious  cocottes   style  one 


126  Sappho. 

another,  three  antique  strumpets,  numbered  among 
the  glories  of  the  Second  Empire,  with  names  as 
famous  as  that  of  a  great  poet  or  victorious  gen- 
eral,—  Wilkie  Cob,  Sombreuse,  Clara  Desfous. 

"  Elegant "  they  all  were  beyond  question,  tricked 
out  in  the  latest  style,  charmingly  dressed  from 
collarette  to  boots;  but  so  withered,  painted, 
powdered !  Sombreuse,  with  no  eyelashes,  life- 
less eyes,  nerveless  Hp,  feehng  around  for  her 
plate,  her  fork,  her  glass;  La  Desfous,  enor- 
mously stout  and  bloated,  with  a  hot-water  bottle 
at  her  feet,  displaying  on  the  table-cloth  her  poor, 
gouty,  distorted  fingers  covered  with  gleaming 
rings  as  hard  to  put  on  and  take  off  as  the  rings 
of  a  Roman  puzzle.  And  Cob,  very  slender,  with 
a  youthful  figure  which  added  to  the  ghastliness 
of  her  fleshless  face,  like  a  sick  clown's,  beneath  a 
mane  of  yellow  tow.  She,  being  utterly  ruined, 
her  property  taken  on  execution,  had  gone  to 
Monte-Carlo  to  try  one  last  coup  and  had  re- 
turned without  a  sou,  mad  with  love  for  a  hand- 
some croupier  who  would  have  none  of  her; 
Rosa,  having  taken  her  in,  supported  her  and 
gloried  in  it. 

All  these  women  knew  Fanny  and  welcomed 
her  with  a  patronizing  *'  How  goes  it,  Httle  one  ?  " 
It  is  a  fact  that  with  her  dress  at  three  francs  the 
yard  and  no  ornaments  save  Kuyper's  red  brooch, 
she  seemed  like  a  raw  recruit  among  those  ghastly 
decorated  veterans  in  harlotry,  whom  their  luxu- 
rious surroundings,  the  light  reflected  from  the 
lake  and  the  sky,  pouring  in  through  the  folding- 


Sappho,  127 

doors  of  the  drawing-room,  mingled  with  the  per- 
fumes of  spring,  made  more  spectral  than  ever. 

There  was  old  Mere  Pilar  too,  the  *'  chinge"  as 
she  called  herself  in  her  Franco-Spanish  jargon,  a 
genuine  monkey  with  a  dead,  rasping  skin,  her 
grinning  features  instinct  with  savage  malice,  her 
gray  hair  cut  short  around  her  ears  like  a  boy's, 
and  a  broad  blue  sailor's  collar  over  her  old 
black  satin. 

"  And  Monsieur  Bichito,"  said  Rosa,  when  she 
had  presented  all  her  guests,  calling  Gaussin's 
attention  to  a  bunch  of  pink  cotton-wool  on  the 
table-cloth,  on  which  the  chameleon  lay  shivering. 

"Well,  where  do  I  come  in?  Are  n't  you  going 
to  introduce  me?"  inquired,  in  a  tone  of  forced 
joviality,  a  tall  man  with  grizzly  moustaches,  cor- 
rectly dressed,  but  perhaps  a  little  stiff  in  his  light 
waistcoat  and  high  collar. 

**True,  true!  Where  does  Tatave  come  in?" 
laughed  the  women.  The  mistress  of  the  house 
carelessly  pronounced  his  name. 

Tatave  was  De  Potter,  the  accomplished  musi- 
cian, the  much  applauded  author  of  Clatidia  and 
Sazwnarole ;  and  Jean,  who  had  only  caught  a 
glimpse  of  him  at  D6chelette's,  was  astonished  to 
find  in  the  great  artist  such  a  lack  of  geniality, 
that  stern,  regular,  wooden  face,  those  dull  eyes, 
putting  the  seal  upon  a  mad,  incurable  passion 
which  had  bound  him  to  that  harridan  for  years, 
had  made  him  leave  wife  and  children  to  become 
a  regular  guest  at  that  house,  where  he  engulfed 
a   part  of  his  great  fortune,  his  profits  from   the 


128  Sappho. 

stage,  and  where  he  was  treated  with  less  consid- 
eration than  a  servant.  You  should  have  seen 
Rosa's  bored  expression  as  soon  as  he  began  to 
tell  a  story,  and  the  contemptuous  way  in  which 
she  imposed  silence  upon  him;  and  Pilar  never 
failed  to  cap  her  daughter's  reproof  by  adding  in 
a  tone  of  decision, — 

*' Just  leave  us  alone,  my  boy." 

Jean  had  old  Pilar  for  a  neighbor  at  table, 
and  those  flabby  old  lips,  which  mumbled  as  she 
ate  with  a  noise  like  that  made  by  an  animal,  that 
inquisitive  inspection  of  his  plate,  were  a  perfect 
torment  to  the  young  man,  intensely  annoyed  as 
he  was  by  Rosa's  patronizing  tone,  her  manner  of 
joking  Fanny  about  the  musical  evenings  at  the 
boarding-house,  and  the  credulity  of  those  poor 
fools  of  foreigners  who  took  the  manager  for  a 
society  woman  fallen  upon  evil  days.  The  former 
"  chariot  lady,"  bloated  with  unhealthy  fat,  with  a 
stone  worth  ten  thousand  francs  at  each  ear, 
seemed  to  envy  her  friend  the  renewal  of  youth 
and  beauty  due  to  that  young  and  handsome 
lover;  and  Fanny  did  not  lose  her  temper;  on 
the  contrary,  she  entertained  the  table,  made  fun 
of  the  boarders  in  true  studio  style,  of  the  Peru- 
vian, who,  rolling  his  white  eyes,  confessed  to  her 
his  desire  to  know  a  great  coticoute,  and  the  silent 
homage  of  the  Dutchman  puffing  like  a  seal,  and 
gasping  behind  her  chair,  "  Guess  how  much  po- 
tatoes are  at  Patavia?" 

Gaussin,  for  his  part,  did  not  laugh ;  nor  did 
Pilar,  engrossed  as  she  was  in  watching  her  daugh- 


Sappho,  129 

ter's  silverware,  or,  if  she  spied  a  fly  on  the  plate 
before  her  or  on  her  neighbor's  sleeve,  leaning 
forward  abruptly  to  present  it,  lisping  tender 
phrases,  "  Eat  it,  mi  alma,  mi  corazon^'  to  the 
hideous  little  beast  which  had  tumbled  on  to  the 
cloth,  a  flabby,  wrinkled,  shapeless  mass,  like  La 
Desfous'  fingers. 

Sometimes,  when  all  the  flies  were  in  retreat,  she 
would  spy  one  on  the  sideboard  or  the  glass  door, 
whereupon  she  would  leave  her  seat  and  trium- 
phantly capture  it.  That  manoeuvre,  repeated 
many  times,  irritated  her  daughter,  who  was  cer- 
tainly very  nervous  that  morning. 

"Don't  keep  getting  up  every  minute;  it's  tire- 
some." 

In  the  same  voice,  two  tones  lower  in  the  scale 
of  jargon,  the  mother  replied,  — 

"  You  people  eat :  why  don't  you  want  him  to 
eat  too?" 

''  Leave  the  table  or  keep  still ;  you  annoy  us." 

The  old  woman  answered  back,  and  they  began 
to  abuse  each  other  like  the  pious  Spaniards  they 
were,  mingling  heaven  and  hell  with  blackguard- 
isms of  the  gutter. 

^^  Hija  del  demoniol  " 

"  Cuerno  de  Satanas  !  " 

''Putar' 

''  Mi  Madref' 

Jean  stared  at  them  in  dismay,  while  the  other 
guests,  accustomed  to  these  domestic  episodes, 
continued  to  eat  tranquilly.  De  Potter  alone  in- 
tervened, out  of  regard  for  the  stranger,  — 

9 


1 30  Sappho. 

''  Come,  come,  pray  don't  quarrel." 

But  Rosa  turned  furiously  upon  him :  ''  Why 
do  you  thrust  your  nose  in?  Fine  manners,  in- 
deed! Ain't  I  free  to  speak?  Just  go  to  your 
wife  and  see  whether  I  am  or  not !  I  've  had 
enough  of  your  fried  perch's  eyes  and  the  three 
hairs  you  've  got  left.  Go  and  take  them  to  your 
old  turkey ;   it 's  high  time  !  " 

De  Potter  smiled,  his  face  a  little  pale. 

"  And  I  must  live  with  this  creature  !  "  he  mut- 
tered in  his  moustache. 

"■  This  creature  's  quite  as  good  as  that  one  !  " 
she  roared,  her  whole  body  almost  on  the  table. 
"  And  the  door 's  open,  you  know ;  off  with  you  — 
skip  !  " 

"  Come,  come,  Rosa,"  the  poor  dull  eyes  im- 
plored. And  Mere  Pilar,  beginning  to  eat  once 
more,  said  with  such  comical  phlegm  :  "  Just  leave 
us  alone,  my  boy !  "  that  the  whole  table  roared 
with  laughter,  even  Rosa,  even  De  Potter,  who 
kissed  his  still  grumbling  mistress,  and  to  earn 
his  pardon  more  fully,  caught  a  fly,  and  presented 
it  delicately,  by  the  wings,  to  Bichito. 

And  that  was  De  Potter,  the  illustrious  composer, 
the  pride  of  the  French  school !  How  did  she  re- 
tain her  hold  upon  him,  by  what  witchcraft, —  that 
creature  grown  old  in  vice,  vulgar  beyond  words, 
with  that  mother  who  made  her  twice  as  disgust- 
ing as  she  naturally  was,  by  exhibiting  her  as  she 
would  be  twenty  years  later,  as  if  reflected  in  a  sil- 
ver ball  ? 

Coffee  was  served  on  the  shore  of  the  lake,  in  a 


Sappho,  131 

little  rockwork  grotto,  lined  with  light  silks,  which 
reflected  the  changing  surface  of  the  water,  —  one 
of  those  delicious  nests  for  kissing  invented  by  the 
story-tellers  of  the  eighteenth  century,  with  a  mir- 
ror in  the  ceiling  which  reflected  the  attitudes  of 
the  old  harridans  sprawling  over  the  broad  couch 
in  a  digestive  torpor,  and  Rosa,  her  cheeks  aflame 
under  the  paint,  stretching  back  against  her 
musician. 

*'  O  my  Tatave  !  my  Tatave  !  " 

But  that  afl"ectionate  warmth  evaporated  with 
the  warmth  of  the  Chartreuse;  and  one  of  the 
ladies  having  suggested  a  row  on  the  lake,  she 
sent  De  Potter  to  prepare  the  boat. 

**  The  skiff,  you  understand,  not  the  Norwegian 
boat." 

"  Suppose  I  tell  D^sird  —  " 

"  D6sir^  's  at  breakfast." 

**  The  skifl"  is  full  of  water ;  we  shall  have  to  bail 
her  out,  and  that 's  a  day's  work." 

"  Jean  will  go  with  you,  De  Potter,"  said  Fanny, 
who  saw  that  another  scene  was  imminent. 

Sitting  opposite  each  other,  with  legs  apart, 
each  on  a  thwart,  they  bailed  energetically,  with- 
out looking  at  each  other,  without  speaking,  as 
if  hypnotized  by  the  rhythm  of  the  water  gushing 
from  the  two  dippers.  The  shadow  of  a  great 
catalpa  fell  in  perfumed  coolness  about  them, 
sharply  outlined  against  the  resplendent  bright- 
ness of  the  lake. 

"  Have  you  been  with  Fanny  long?"  the  musi- 
cian suddenly  asked,  pausing  in  his  work. 


132  Sappho. 

"Two  years,"  replied  Gaussin,  somewhat  sur- 
prised. 

''  Only  two  years  !  In  that  case  what  you  see  to- 
day may  perhaps  be  of  service  to  you.  It  is  twenty 
years  since  I  went  to  live  with  Rosa,  —  twenty 
years  since,  on  my  return  from  Italy  after  my  three 
years'  incumbency  of  the  prix  de  Rome,  I  went  into 
the  Hippodrome  one  evening  and  saw  her  standing 
in  her  httle  chariot,  coming  down  on  me  round  the 
turn  in  the  ring,  whip  in  air,  with  her  helmet  with 
eight  lanceheads,  and  her  coat  covered  with  gold 
scales  fitting  tight  to  her  figure  to  the  middle  of 
her  leg.     Ah !   if  any  one  had  told  me  — " 

Plying  his  dipper  once  more,  he  told  how  at 
first  his  people  had  simply  laughed  at  the  liaison ; 
then,  when  the  matter  became  serious,  to  what 
efforts,  what  entreaties,  what  sacrifices,  his  parents 
had  had  recourse  in  order  to  break  it  off.  Two  or 
three  times  the  girl  had  been  bribed  to  leave  him, 
but  he  always  joined  her  again.  "  Let  us  try 
travelling,"  his  mother  had  said.  He  travelled,  re- 
turned, and  took  up  with  her  again.  Then  he  had 
consented  to  marry;  a  pretty  girl,  a  handsome 
dowry,  and  the  promise  of  the  Institute  for  a  wed- 
ding present.  And  three  months  later  he  left  the 
new  establishment  for  the  old  one.  "  Ah  !  young 
man  !  young  man  !  " 

He  told  the  story  of  his  life  in  a  passionless 
voice,  without  moving  a  muscle  in  his  face,  as 
rigid  as  the  starched  collar  that  held  his  head  so 
straight.  And  boats  passed,  laden  with  students 
and   girls,   overflowing  with   song   and    with   the 


Sappho.  133 

laughter  of  youth  and  excitement;  how  many 
among  those  heedless  ones  might  profitably  have 
stopped  and  taken  their  share  of  the  lesson  ! 

In  the  kiosk,  meanwhile,  as  if  the  word  had 
been  passed  to  bring  about  a  rupture,  the  old 
d^gantes  were  preaching  common-sense  to  Fanny 
Legrand.  Her  little  one  was  pretty  to  look  at, 
but  not  a  sou ;  what  would  that  bring  her  to  ? 

"  But  so  long  as  I  love  him  !  " 

And  Rosa  observed  with  a  shrug :  **  Let  her 
alone ;  she 's  going  to  miss  her  Dutchman,  as  I  've 
seen  her  miss  all  her  fine  chances.  After  her  affair 
with  Flamant,  however,  she  did  try  to  become 
practical,  but  here  she  is  crazier  than  ever." 

**  Ay  !  vellaca!  "  grumbled  Mamma  Pilar. 

The  Englishwoman  with  the  clown's  face  inter- 
vened with  the  horrible  accent  to  which  she  owed 
her  long-continued  vogue :  — 

"  It  was  all  very  well  to  love  love,  little  one,  — 
love  was  a  very  good  thing,  you  know,  —  but  you 
ought  to  love  money  too.  Take  me,  for  instance, 
if  I  had  still  been  rich,  do  you  suppose  my  croup- 
ier'd  have  called  me  ugly,  eh?"  She  jumped  up 
and  down  in  a  frenzy  and  raised  her  voice  to  its 
shrillest  pitch :  "  Oh !  but  that  was  terrible.  To 
have  been  famous  in  the  world,  known  everywhere 
like  a  monument  or  a  boulevard,  so  well  known 
that  you  could  n't  find  a  miserable  cabman  who 
would  n't  know  at  once  where  to  go  when  you 
said,  *Wilkie  Cob!'  To  have  had- princes  to  put 
my  feet  on,  and  kings,  when  I  spit,  say  that  it  was 
pretty  1     And  then  to  think  of  that  filthy  cur  who 


1 34  Sappho, 

wouldn't  have  me  because  I  was  ugly;  and  I 
did  n't  have  enough  to  buy  him  for  just  one 
night." 

And  waxing  excited  at  the  idea  that  she  should 
have  been  called  ugly,  she  abruptly  opened  her 
dress. 

*^  The  face,  yes,  I  sacrificed  that ;  but  the  breast 
and  shoulders,  —  are  they  white  ?  are  they  firm  and 
hard?" 

She  shamelessly  displayed  her  witch's  flesh, 
which  had  retained  its  youth  to  a  miraculous  de- 
gree after  thirty  years  in  the  furnace,  and  over 
which  lowered  her  face,  withered  and  deathly  from 
the  line  of  the  neck  upwards. 

"  The  boat  is  ready,  mesdames  !  "  called  De  Pot- 
ter; and  the  EngHshwoman,  fastening  her  dress 
over  what  remained  to  her  of  youth,  murmured 
in  comical  dismay,  — 

"  I  could  n't  go  half-dressed  to  public  places, 
you  see." 

What  an  embarkation  that  was  of  all  those  sup- 
erannuated old  Cythereans,  in  that  landscape 
worthy  of  Lancret,  where  the  dainty  white  villas 
stood  out  among  the  new  verdure,  with  the  ter- 
races and  lawns  framing  that  little  lake  gleaming 
as  with  scales  in  the  sunlight,  —  blind  Sombreuse 
and  the  old  clown  and  Desfous,  the  paralytic,  leav- 
ing in  the  wake  of  the  boat  the  musky  odor  of 
their  paint ! 

Jean  plied  the  oars,  bending  his  back  to  the 
task,  ashamed  and  in  despair  at  the  thought  that 
some  one  might  see  him  and  impute  to  him  some 


Sappho.  135 

degrading  function  in  that  ill-omened,  allegorical 
craft.  Luckily,  he  had  facing  him,  to  refresh  his 
heart  and  his  eyes,  Fanny  Legrand,  who  sat  in  the 
stern,  near  the  tiller  held  by  De  Potter,  —  Fanny, 
whose  smile  had  never  seemed  to  him  so  youthful, 
by  reason  of  the  contrast,  doubtless. 

'*  Sing  us  something,  little  one,"  said  La  Des- 
fous,  softened  by  the  spring  weather.  In  her 
deep,  expressive  voice  Fanny  began  the  barcarole 
from  Claudia^  while  the  musician,  moved  by  that 
reminder  of  his  first  great  success,  hummed  with 
his  mouth  closed  the  orchestral  accompaniment, 
those  undulating  measures  which  flit  about  the 
melody  like  the  gleam  of  dancing  water.  At  that 
hour,  in  that  lovely  spot,  it  was  delicious.  Some 
one  cried  bravo!  from  a  terrace  near  by;  and  the 
Provencal,  keeping  time  with  his  oars,  felt  a  thirst 
for  that  divine  music  from  his  mistress's  lips,  a 
temptation  to  put  his  mouth  to  the  spring  itself, 
and  to  drink  in  the  sunlight,  with  his  head  thrown 
back,  forever. 

Suddenly  Rosa  in  a  savage  tone  interrupted  the 
singing,  irritated  by  the  union  of  the  two  voices : 
"  I  say  there,  give  us  some  music  when  you  have 
done  cooing  into  each  other's  faces.  Do  you 
fancy  that  that  funereal  stuff  amuses  us  !  We  've 
had  enough  of  it ;  in  the  first  place  it 's  late,  and 
Fanny  must  go  back  to  her  box." 

With  an  angry  gesture  she  pointed  to  the  near- 
est pier. 

"  Steer  in  there,"  she  said  to  her  lover ;  "  they  '11 
be  nearer  the  station." 


1 36  Sappho, 

It  was  a  brutal  sort  of  dismissal ;  but  the  ex- 
lady  of  the  chariot  had  accustomed  her  intimates 
to  her  methods  of  procedure,  and  no  one  dared 
protest.  The  couple  being  landed  on  the  shore 
with  a  few  words  of  frigid  politeness  to  the  young 
man,  and  orders  to  Fanny  in  a  shrill  voice,  the 
boat  moved  away  laden  with  outcries  and  with  a 
bitter  altercation,  terminated  by  an  insulting  burst 
of  laughter  borne  to  the  lovers'  ears  by  the  reso- 
nance of  the  water. 

"  You  hear,  you  hear,"  said  Fanny,  livid  with 
rage ;  "  she  is  making  sport  of  us !  " 

All  her  humiliation,  all  the  rankling  insults  in- 
flicted upon  her,  recurred  to  her  mind  at  that  last 
affront,  and  she  enumerated  them  as  they  returned 
to  the  station,  even  admitted  some  thir>gs  that  she 
had  always  concealed.  Rosa's  whole  object  was 
to  part  her  from  him,  to  afford  her  opportunities 
to  deceive  him.  "When  I  think  of  all  she  has 
said  to  me  to  make  me  take  up  with  that  Dutch- 
man !  Just  now  again  they  all  went  at  me.  I 
love  you  too  well,  you  see ;  it  bothers  her  in  her 
vices,  for  she  has  them  all,  the  vilest,  the  most 
monstrous." 

She  checked  herself,  seeing  that  he  was  very 
pale,  that  his  lips  were  trembling  as  on  the  even- 
ing when  he  stirred  the  dunghill  of  letters. 

"  Oh  !  have  no  fear,"  she  said ;  "  your  love  has 
cured  me  of  all  those  horrors.  She  and  her  pes- 
tiferous chameleon  are  equally  disgusting  to  me." 

*'  I  don't  want  you  to  stay  there,"  said  the  lover, 
agitated  by  unhealthy  jealousy.      **  There  is  too 


Sappho.  137 

much  filth  in  the  bread  you  earn ;  you  must  go 
home  with  me ;  we  will  pull  through  somehow." 

She  expected  that  cry,  had  been  trying  for  a 
long  time  to  call  it  forth.  And  yet  she  resisted, 
objecting  that  it  would  be  very  hard  to  keep  house 
with  the  three  hundred  francs  from  the  depart- 
ment, and  that  they  would  perhaps  have  to  sepa- 
rate again.  *^And  I  suffered  so  when  I  left  our 
poor  httlc  house  !  " 

Benches  were  placed  at  intervals  under  the 
acacias  which  lined  the  road,  with  telegraph  wires 
covered  with  swallows ;  to  talk  more  at  ease,  they 
sat  down,  both  deeply  moved,  and  arm  in  arm. 

"Three  hundred  francs  a  month,"  said  Jean; 
"  why,  what  do  the  Hettemas  do,  who  have  only 
two  hundred  and  fifty?" 

"  They  live  in  the  country  at  Chaville,  all  the 
year  round." 

"  Well,  let 's  do  as  they  do ;  I  do  not  care  for 
Paris." 

"  Really?  do  you  really  mean  it?  oh,  my  dear! 
my  dear !  " 

People  were  passing  along  the  road,  a  galloping 
line  of  asses  carrying  the  debris  of  a  wedding- 
party.  They  could  not  embrace,  and  they  sat 
motionless,  very  close  together,  dreaming  of  a 
rejuvenated  happiness  on  summer  evenings  in  the 
country,  sweet  with  that  same  perfume  of  green 
fields,  tranquil  and  warm,  and  enlivened  by  carbine- 
shots  in  the  distance  and  by  the  barrel-organ  tunes 
of  a  suburban  fete. 


138  Sappho, 


VIII. 

They  settled  at  Chaville,  between  the  upper 
and  the  lower  town,  along  that  old  forest  road 
called  the  Pav6  des  Gardes,  in  an  old  hunting- 
box  at  the  entrance  to  the  woods :  three  rooms 
hardly  larger  than  those  in  Paris,  and  the  same 
furniture,  the  cane-seated  chair,  the  painted  ward- 
robe, and  to  adorn  the  horrible  green  paper  in 
their  bedroom,  nothing  but  Fanny's  portrait,  for 
the  photograph  of  Castelet  had  its  frame  broken 
in  moving  and  was  fading  away  in  the  lumber- 
room. 

They  hardly  mentioned  poor  Castelet  now, 
since  the  uncle  and  niece  had  broken  off  their 
correspondence. 

"  A  pretty  kind  of  a  friend  !  "  she  said,  remem- 
bering Le  Fenat's  readiness  to  promote  the  first 
rupture.  Only  the  little  girls  kept  their  brother 
informed  of  the  news,  for  Divonne  had  ceased  to 
write.  Perhaps  she  still  entertained  a  grudge 
against  her  nephew;  or  did  she  guess  that  the 
bad  woman  had  returned,  to  unseal,  and  criticise 
her  poor,  motherly  letters  in  the  coarse  peasant 
handwriting. 

At  times  they  might  have  believed  that  they 
were  still  on  Rue  d'Amsterdam,  when  they  were 
awakened  by  the  singing  of  the  Hettemas^  once 


Sappho,  1 39 

more  their  neighbors,  and  the  whistling  of  the 
locomotives  passing  constantly  in  both  directions 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  and  visible  through 
the  trees  of  a  large  park.  But  instead  of  the 
murky  glass  walls  of  the  great  Western  station, 
its  curtainless  windows,  through  which  could  be 
seen  the  silhouettes  of  clerks  bending  over  their 
work,  and  the  roar  and  rumble  of  the  sloping 
street,  they  enjoyed  the  silent,  green  space  be- 
yond their  little  orchard,  surrounded  by  other 
gardens,  by  villas  in  clumps  of  trees,  sliding  down 
to  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Before  starting  for  Paris  in  the  morning,  Jean 
breakfasted  in  their  little  dining-room,  with  the 
window  open  on  the  broad  paved  road,  grass- 
grown  in  spots,  and  lined  by  rows  of  white  thorn 
with  its  pungent  perfume.  That  road  took  him 
to  the  station  in  ten  minutes,  skirting  the  rustling, 
chirping  park;  and  when  he  returned,  those 
sounds  grew  fainter  as  the  shadows  crept  out  of 
the  thickets  to  the  moss  in  the  green  road,  em- 
purpled by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  and  as  the 
calls  of  the  cuckoos  in  every  corner  of  the  wood 
blended  with  the  trills  of  the  nightingale  among 
the  ivy. 

But  as  soon  as  they  were  fairly  settled,  and  his 
surprise  at  the  unaccustomed  tranquillity  of  his 
surroundings  had  subsided,  the  lover  fell  a  victim 
anew  to  the  torments  of  a  sterile  and  prying  jeal- 
ousy. His  mistress's  rupture  with  Rosa  and  her 
departure  from  the  lodging-house  had  led  to  an 
appalling   explanation    between   the   two  women, 


140  Sappho. 

full  of  ambiguous  insinuations,  which  revived  his 
suspicions,  his  most  disturbing  anxieties;  and 
when  he  went  away,  when  he  looked  out  from 
the  train  at  their  little  low  house,  with  just  a  ground- 
floor  surmounted  by  a  round  attic  window,  his 
glance  seemed  to  pierce  the  wall.  He  would  say 
to  himself,  *'Who  knows?"  and  the  thought 
haunted  him  even  among  the  papers  on  his  desk. 

When  he  returned  at  night,  he  made  her  give 
him  an  account  of  her  day,  of  her  most  trivial 
acts,  of  her  thoughts,  generally  most  uninterest- 
ing, which  he  tried  to  surprise  with  a  "  What  are 
you  thinking  about?  tell  me,  quick,"  always  fear- 
ing that  she  regretted  something  or  some  one  in 
that  horrible  past,  admitted  by  her  every  time 
with  the  same  imperturbable  frankness. 

When  they  met  only  on  Sundays  and  were 
thirsty  for  each  other,  he  did  not  waste  time  in 
these  insulting  and  minute  searchings  of  the  mind. 
But  now  that  they  were  together  once  more,  with 
no  break  in  their  life  a  deux,  they  tormented  each 
other  even  in  their  caresses,  in  their  most  secret 
communing,  excited  by  the  dull  wrath,  the  painful 
consciousness,  of  the  irreparable. 

Then,  too,  their  energies  seemed  to  relax ;  per- 
haps it  was  satiety  of  the  senses  in  the  warm  en- 
velopment of  nature,  or  more  simply  the  proximity 
of  the  Hettemas.  Of  all  the  households  encamped 
in  the  suburbs  of  Paris,  not  one  perhaps  ever  en- 
joyed the  freedom  of  life  in  the  country  as  that 
one  did,  —  the  delight  of  going  about  clad  in  rags, 
in  hats  made  of  bark,  Madame  without   corsets, 


Sappho,  141 

Monsieur  in  canvas  shoes ;  of  carrying  crusts  from 
the  table  for  the  ducks,  scrapings  for  the  rabbits ; 
and  hoeing  and  raking  and  planting  and  watering. 

Oh,  that  watering ! 

The  Hettemas  set  about  it  as  soon  as  the  hus- 
band, after  returning  from  the  office,  had  ex- 
changed his  office  coat  for  a  Robinson  Crusoe 
jacket;  after  dinner  they  went  at  it  again,  and 
long  after  nightfall,  in  the  little  dark  garden,  from 
which  a  fresh  smell  of  damp  earth  arose,  could  be 
heard  the  creaking  of  the  pump,  the  colliding  of 
the  great  watering-pots,  and  elephantine  gasps 
wandering  among  the  flower-beds,  with  a  splash- 
ing which  seemed  to  be  caused  by  water  falling 
from  the  toilers'  brows  into  their  watering-pots,  and 
from  time  to  time  a  triumphant  exclamation :  — 

"  I  Ve  put  thirty-two  pots  on  the  marrowfat 
peas !  " 

**  And  I  fourteen  on  the  balsams !  " 

They  were  people  who  were  not  content  to  be 
happy,  but  gloated  over  their  own  happiness  and 
relished  it  in  a  way  to  make  your  mouth  water ; 
especially  the  man,  by  the  irresistible  way  in  which 
he  described  the  joys  of  their  household  in  winter. 

"  It 's  nothing  now,  but  just  wait  till  December, 
then  you  '11  see  !  You  come  home  wet  and  muddy, 
with  all  the  vexations  of  Paris  on  your  back ;  you 
find  a  good  fire,  a  bright  lamp,  the  soup  smoking 
on  the  table,  and  under  the  table  a  pair  of  clogs 
filled  with  straw.  Ah  !  when  you  Ve  stowed  away 
a  dish  of  sausages  and  cabbage  with  a  slice  of 
gruyere  kept  fresh  under  a  cloth,  and  when  you  've 


142  Sappho. 

poured  on  it  a  glass  of  wine  that  never  saw  Bercy, 
free  of  christening  and  duty,  how  pleasant  it  is  to 
draw  your  armchair  up  to  the  fire,  light  a  pipe 
while  you  drink  your  coffee  laced  with  a  drop  of 
brandy,  and  take  a  little  snooze  opposite  each 
other,  while  the  ice  melts  on  the  windows !  Just 
a  bit  of  a  nap,  you  know,  long  enough  for  the 
heavy  part  of  the  digestion.  Then  you  draw  a 
few  minutes,  the  wife  clears  the  table,  hustles 
about  fixing  the  bedclothes  and  the  hot-water 
bottle ;  and  when  she  's  gone  to  bed  and  the  place 
is  warm,  in  you  jump,  and  you  feel  a  warmth  all 
over  your  body  just  as  if  you  'd  crawled  into  the^ 
straw  in  your  shoes." 

He  waxed  almost  eloquent  over  his  material 
joys,  the  hairy,  heavy-jawed  giant,  on  ordinary 
occasions  so  shy  that  he  could  not  say  two  words 
without  blushing  and  stammering. 

That  absurd  shyness,  which  contrasted  so  comi- 
cally with  his  black  beard  and  colossal  frame,  was 
responsible  for  his  marriage  and  his  tranquil  life. 
Hettema  at  twenty-five,  overflowing  with  lusty 
health,  knew  nothing  of  love  or  women ;  but  one 
day  at  Nevers,  after  a  corps  dinner,  some  of  his 
comrades  enticed  him,  half-tipsy,  to  a  house  of 
prostitution  and  forced  him  to  choose  one  of  the 
inmates.  He  left  the  place  in  the  utmost  bewil- 
derment, went  there  again  and  again,  always  chose 
the  same  one,  paid  her  debts,  took  her  away,  and, 
taking  fright  at  the  idea  that  some  one  might  steal 
her  from  him,  so  that  he  would  have  to  begin  a 
fresh  conquest,  he  ended  by  marrying  her. 


Sappho,  143 

**  A  legitimate  household,  my  dear,"  said  Fanny, 
with  a  triumphant  laugh,  to  Jean,  who  listened  to 
her  in  dismay.  **  And  it  is  the  cleanest  and  most 
virtuous  of  all  of  that  kind  I  have  ever  known." 

She  affirmed  it  in  the  sincerity  of  her  ignorance, 
for  the  legitimate  households  to  which  she  had 
been  admitted  doubtless  deserved  no  kinder  judg- 
ment ;  and  all  her  ideas  of  life  were  as  sincere  and 
as  false  as  that. 

As  neighbors  these  Hettemas  had  a  calming 
effect,  being  always  good-humored,  capable  of 
rendering  services  that  were  not  too  burdensome, 
and  having  an  especial  horror  of  scenes,  of  quar- 
rels in  which  they  must  take  part,  and  in  general 
of  anything  calculated  to  interfere  with  a  peaceful 
digestion.  The  wife  tried  to  initiate  Fanny  in  the 
science  of  raising  chickens  and  rabbits,  in  the  sa- 
lubrious delights  of  watering,  but  in  vain. 

Gaussin's  mistress,  a  child  of  the  faubourg  and 
graduate  of  studios,  did  not  like  the  country  ex- 
cept in  snatches,  on  picnics,  as  a  place  where  one 
can  shout  and  roll  on  the  grass  and  lose  oneself 
with  one's  lover.  She  detested  effort  and  labor, 
and  as  her  six  months'  experience  as  manager  had 
exhausted  her  power  of  energy  for  a  long  while, 
she  sank  into  a  dreamy  torpor,  a  drunkenness  of 
comfort  and  fresh  air,  which  almost  left  her  with- 
out strength  to  dress,  to  arrange  her  hair,  or  even 
to  open  her  piano. 

The  cares  of  housekeeping  being  confided  en- 
tirely to  a  country-woman,  when,  at  night,  she 
reviewed  her  day  in  order  to  describe  it  to  Jean, 


144  Sappho, 

she  could  think  of  nothing  but  a  visit  to  Olympe, 
gossip  over  the  wall,  and  cigarettes,  heaps  of  cigar- 
ettes, the  remains  of  which  disfigured  the  marble 
mantel.  Six  o'clock  already  !  Barely  time  to  slip 
on  a  dress  and  pin  a  flower  in  her  waist  to  go  and 
meet  him  on  the  grass-grown  road. 

But  with  the  coming  of  the  fogs  and  rains  of 
autumn,  and  night  falling  so  early,  she  had  more 
than  one  excuse  for  not  going  out;  and  he  fre- 
quently surprised  her  on  his  return  in  one  of  the 
white  woollen  gandouras  with  broad  pleats,  which 
she  put  on  in  the  morning,  and  with  her  hair 
twisted  in  a  knot  as  when  he  went  away.  He 
thought  her  charming  so,  with  her  still  youthful 
flesh,  well  kept  and  tempting,  which  was  ready  to 
his  hand,  with  nothing  in  the  way.  And  yet  that 
lack  of  energy  ofl"ended  him,  alarmed  him  as  a 
source  of  danger. 

He  himself,  after  a  tremendous  effort  to  increase 
their  resources  a  little  without  having  recourse  to 
Castelet,  after  passing  nights  over  plans,  reproduc- 
tions of  pieces  of  artillery,  caissons,  muskets  of  a 
new  pattern,  which  he  designed  for  Hettema,  was 
assailed  by  the  enervating  influence  of  the  country 
and  of  solitude,  by  which  the  strongest  and  most 
energetic  allow  themselves  to  be  overcome,  its 
benumbing  seed  having  been  implanted  in  him 
by  his  early  childhood  in  an  out-of-the  way 
corner. 

And  the  materiality  of  their  stout  neighbors  as- 
sisted in  the  process,  infecting  them,  in  the  endless 
going  and  coming  from  one  house  to  the  other, 


Sappho,  145 

with  a  little  of  their  mental  degradation  and  their 
abnormal  appetite.  Gaiissin  and  his  mistress  also 
reached  the  point  of  discussing  the  question  of 
meals  and  bedtime.  Cesaire  having  sent  a  cask 
of  his  "  frog's  wine,"  they  passed  a  whole  Sunday 
bottling  it,  with  the  door  of  their  little  cellar  open 
to  the  last  sun  of  the  year,  a  blue  sky  flecked  with 
pink  clouds,  of  the  shade  of  wood-heather.  They 
were  not  far  away  from  the  period  of  clogs  filled 
with  warm  straw  and  the  after-dinner  nap.  Luck- 
ily something  occurred  to  divert  their  thoughts. 

He  found  her  one  evening  highly  excited. 
Olympe  had  been  telling  her  the  story  of  a  little 
boy,  brought  up  by  a  grandmother  in  Morvan. 
The  father  and  mother,  dealers  in  wood  in  Paris, 
had  not  written  or  paid  any  money  for  months. 
The  grandmother  having  died  suddenly,  some 
bargemen  had  brought  the  urchin  through  the 
Yonne  Canal  to  turn  him  over  to  his  parents; 
but  they  could  not  find  any  one.  The  wood-yard 
closed,  the  mother  gone  off  with  a  lover,  the  father 
become  a  drunkard,  a  bankrupt,  disappeared ! 
Fine  things,  these  lawful  households !  And  there 
was  the  Httle  fellow,  six  years  old,  a  perfect  love, 
without  bread  or  clothes,  in  the  gutter  ! 

She  was  moved  almost  to  tears,  then  said 
abruptly,  — 

"  Suppose  we  should  take  him?  Are  you  will- 
ing?" 

"  What  madness  !  " 

"Why  so?"  And  nestling  close  to  him,  she 
continued   coaxingly :    "  You    know   how   I    have 


146  Sappho, 

longed  for  a  child  by  you ;  we  could  bring  this 
one  up,  give  him  an  education.  After  a  while  you 
love  the  little  ones  you  pick  up  in  the  street  as 
dearly  as  if  they  were  your  own." 

She  also  reminded  him  what  a  source  of  distrac- 
tion it  would  be  to  her,  alone  as  she  was  all  day, 
growing  stupid  by  dint  of  overhauling  heaps  of  un- 
pleasant thoughts.  A  child  is  a  safeguard.  Then, 
when  she  saw  that  he  had  taken  fright  at  the  ex- 
pense :  *'  Why,  the  expense  is  nothing.  Just  think, 
six  years  old !  we  will  dress  him  with  your  old 
clothes.  Olympe,  who  knows  what  she's  talking 
about,  assures  me  that  we  should  never  notice  it." 

"Why  doesn't  she  take  him,  then?"  said  Jean, 
with  the  testiness  of  a  man  who  feels  that  he  is 
vanquished  by  his  own  weakness.  He  tried  to  re- 
sist, however,  resorting  to  the  convincing  argu- 
ment :  "  And  when  I  am  no  longer  here,  what  will 
happen?"  He  rarely  mentioned  his  departure,  in 
order  not  to  sadden  Fanny,  but  he  thought  of  it, 
and  was  reassured  by  the  thought  against  the  dan- 
gers of  his  present  mode  of  life  and  De  Potter's 
melancholy  confidences.  "  What  a  complication 
the  child  will  cause,  what  a  burden  he  will  be  to 
you  in  the  future  !  " 

Fanny's  eyes  grew  dim. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  my  dear ;  he  will  be  some 
one  to  talk  to  about  you,  a  consolation,  a  respon- 
sibility too,  which  will  give  me  strength  to  work,  to 
retain  a  desire  to  hve." 

He  reflected  a  moment,  imagined  her  all  alone, 
in  the  empty  house. 


Sappho,  147 

"Where  is  the  little  fellow?  " 

"  At  Bas-Meudon,  with  a  bargeman  who  has 
taken  him  in  for  a  few  days.  After  that  it 's  the 
hospital,  the  almshouse." 

"  Well,  go  and  get  him,  as  your  heart  is  set 
on  it." 

She  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  all  the 
evening,  as  joyous  as  a  child,  she  played,  and  sang, 
happy,  exuberant,  transfigured.  The  next  morn- 
ing, in  the  train,  Jean  mentioned  their  decision  to 
Hettema,  who  seemed  to  know  about  the  episode, 
but  to  be  determined  to  have  no  hand  in  it. 
Buried  in  his  corner  reading  the  Petit  Journal ^  he 
muttered  in  the  depths  of  his  beard,  — 

"  Yes,  I  know  —  the  women  did  it  —  it 's  none  of 
my  business.  Your  wife  seems  to  me  to  be  very  ro- 
mantic," he  added,  showing  his  face  above  the  paper. 

Romantic  or  not,  she  was  dismayed  beyond  mea- 
sure that  evening,  as  she  knelt  on  the  floor,  a  plate 
of  soup  in  her  hand,  trying  to  tame  the  little  fel- 
low from  Morvan,  who  stood  against  the  wall  in  a 
shrinking  attitude,  his  head  hanging  down,  —  an 
enormous  head  with  flaxen  hair,  —  and  energeti- 
cally refused  to  talk,  to  eat,  even  to  show  his  face, 
but  repeated  again  and  again  in  a  loud,  choking, 
monotonous  voice, — 

"  See  Menine,  see  Menine." 

**  Menine  was  his  grandmother,  I  imagine.  Since 
two  o'clock  I  have  n't  been  able  to  get  anything 
else  out  of  him." 

Jean  took  a  hand  in  trying  to  make  him  swallow 
his  soup,  but  without  avail.     And  there  they  re- 


148  Sappho. 

mained,  kneeling  so  that  their  faces  were  on  a  level 
with  his,  one  holding  the  plate,  the  other  the  spoon, 
as  if  he  were  a  sick  lamb,  trying  to  move  him  by 
encouraging,  affectionate  words. 

"■  Let  us  go  to  dinner ;  perhaps  we  frighten  him  ; 
he  will  eat  if  we  stop  looking  at  him." 

But  he  continued  to  stand  there,  wild  as  a  hawk, 
repeating  like  a  little  savage  his  wailing  ''  See  Me- 
nine,"  which  tore  their  hearts,  until  he  fell  asleep 
leaning  against  the  sideboard,  —  such  a  deep  sleep 
that  they  were  able  to  undress  him  and  lay  him  in 
the  rough,  rustic  cradle  borrowed  from  a  neighbor, 
without  his  opening  his  eyes  for  a  second. 

"  See  how  handsome  he  is !  "  said  Fanny,  very 
proud  of  her  acquisition ;  and  she  compelled  Gaus- 
sin  to  admire  that  wilful  brow,  those  refined  and 
delicate  features  beneath  the  sunburn  of  the  fields, 
that  perfect  little  body  with  the  well-knit  loins,  the 
full  arms,  the  legs  like  a  young  satyr's,  already 
covered  with  down  below  the  knee.  She  forgot 
herself  gazing  at  that  childish  beauty. 

"  Cover  him  up  ;  he  '11  be  cold,"  said  Jean,  whose 
voice  made  her  start,  as  if  awakened  from  a  dream ; 
and  as  she  carefully  tucked  him  in,  the  little  one 
drew  several  long  sobbing  breaths,  as  if  struggling 
in  a  sea  of  despair,  notwithstanding  his  sleep. 

In  the  night  he  began  to  talk  of  his  own  accord : 

"  Guerlande  me,  Menine." 

**What  does  he  say?  listen." 

He  wanted  to  be  guerlanded',  but  what  did  that 
patois  word  mean?  Jean  at  all  hazards  put  out 
his  arm  and  began  to  rock  the  heavy  cradle ;  grad- 


Sappho.  149 

ually  the  child  became  quieter  and  fell  asleep  hold- 
ing in  his  chubby  little  hand  the  hand  which  he 
believed  to  be  his  "  Menine's,"  who  had  been  dead 
a  fortnight. 

He  was  like  a  little  wild  cat  in  the  house,  claw- 
ing and  biting,  eating  apart  from  the  others,  and 
growling  when  any  one  approached  his  bowl ;  the 
few  words  that  they  extorted  from  him  were  in 
the  barbarous  dialect  of  Morvan  wood-cutters, 
which  no  one  could  ever  have  understood  with- 
out the  aid  of  the  Hettemas,  who  were  from  the 
same  province  as  he.  However,  by  dint  of  con- 
stant attention  and  gentleness  they  succeeded  in 
taming  him  a  httle,  "  tm  pso,'*  as  he  said.  He 
consented  to  exchange  the  rags  he  wore  when  he 
arrived  for  the  neat  warm  clothes,  the  sight  of 
which  at  first  made  him  tremble  with  rage  as  a 
jackal  would,  if  one  should  try  to  dress  him  in  a 
greyhound's  coat.  He  learned  to  eat  at  the  table, 
to  use  a  fork  and  spoon,  and  to  answer,  when  any 
one  asked  him  his  name,  that  in  the  country  '*  i  li 
dision  Josaph."  ^ 

As  for  giving  him  the  slightest  elementary  no- 
tions in  the  way  of  education,  they  could  not  think 
of  that  as  yet.  Brought  up  in  the  midst  of  the 
woods,  in  a  charcoal-burner's  hut,  the  murmur  of 
rustling,  swarming  nature  haunted  his  tough  little 
rustic's  pate  as  the  sound  of  the  sea  rings  in  the 
spiral  folds  of  a  shell ;  and  there  was  no  way  of 
forcing  anything  else  into  it,  nor  of  keeping  him 
in  the  house  even  in  the  most  severe  weather.  In 
1  They  called  him  Josaph. 


1 50  Sappho. 

the  rain  and  the  snow,  when  the  bare  trees  stood 
hke  columns  of  frost,  he  would  slip  out  of  the 
house,  prowl  among  the  bushes,  search  the  holes 
and  burrows  with  the  ingenious  cruelty  of  a  ferret, 
and  when  he  returned  home,  in  a  state  of  collapse 
from  hunger,  he  always  had  in  his  torn  fustian 
jacket,  or  in  the  pockets  of  his  little  breeches,  cov- 
ered with  mud  to  his  waist,  some  stunned  or  dead 
creature,  a  bird  or  mole  or  field-mouse,  or,  in  its 
place,  potatoes  or  beets  he  had  dug  in  the  fields. 

Nothing  could  overcome  those  poaching,  ma- 
rauding instincts,  coupled  with  a  peasant's  mania 
for  stowing  away  all  sorts  of  glittering  trifles, 
copper  buttons,  bits  of  jet,  tinfoil,  which  he  would 
pick  up,  hiding  them  in  his  hand,  and  carry  them 
ofT  to  hiding-places  worthy  of  a  thieving  magpie. 
All  this  booty  was  Included  by  him  in  a  vague, 
generic  name,  "the  harvest"  {la  denr^e),  which 
he  pronounced  denraie ;  and  neither  arguments 
nor  blows  would  have  deterred  him  from  making 
his  denraie  at  the  expense  of  everybody  and 
everything. 

Only  the  Hettemas  could  keep  him  in  order, 
the  draughtsman  keeping  always  within  reach,  on 
the  table  around  which  the  Httle  savage  prowled, 
attracted  by  the  compasses  and  colored  pencils,  a 
dog-whip  which  he  cracked  about  his  legs.  But 
neither  Jean  nor  Fanny  would  resort  to  such 
threats,  although  the  little  one,  in  his  deahngs 
with  them,  was  sly,  suspicious,  untamable  even  by 
the  most  affectionate  cajolery,  as  if  Meninej  when 
she  died,  had  deprived  him  of  all  power  of  affec- 


Sappho,  151 

tion.  Fanny  sometimes  succeeded  in  keeping  him 
for  a  moment  on  her  knees,  *'  because  she  smelt 
good ; "  but  to  Gaussin,  although  he  was  very- 
gentle  with  him,  he  was  always  the  wild  beast  of 
the  first  night,  with  the  same  suspicious  glance 
and  outstretched  claws. 

That  unconquerable,  almost  instinctive  repulsion 
on  the  child's  part,  the  inquisitive,  mischievous  ex- 
pression of  his  little  blue  eyes,  with  their  Albino- 
like lashes,  and,  above  all,  Fanny's  sudden  and 
blind  affection  for  the  little  stranger  who  had  sud- 
denly fallen  into  their  lives,  tormented  the  lover 
with  a  new  suspicion.  Perhaps  he  was  her  own 
child,  brought  up  by  a  nurse  or  by  her  stepmother ; 
and  Machaume's  death,  of  which  they  learned  about 
that  time,  was  a  coincidence  that  seemed  to  justify 
his  suspicions.  Sometimes  at  night,  when  he  held 
that  little  hand,  which  clung  tightly  to  his,  —  for 
the  child  in  the  vague  land  of  dreams  always 
thought  that  Mhiine  was  holding  it,  —  he  ques- 
tioned him  with  all  his  inward,  unacknowledged 
unrest:  ''Where  do  you  come  from?  Who  are 
you?"  hoping  that  the  mystery  of  the  little  fel- 
low's birth  might  be  made  known  to  him  through 
contact  with  his  warm  flesh. 

But  his  anxiety  vanished  at  a  word  from  P^re 
Legrand,  who  came  to  ask  for  assistance  in  pay- 
ing for  a  fence  around  his  deceased  helpmeet's 
grave,  and  called  out  to  his  daughter  when  he 
saw  Josaph's  cradle  :  — 

"  Hallo !  a  kid !  you  must  be  pleased,  when 
you  've  never  been  able  to  raise  one." 


152  Sappho, 

Gaussin  was  so  happy  that  he  paid  for  the  fence 
without  even  asking  to  see  the  plans,  and  kept 
Pere   Legrand  to  breakfast. 

The  6ld  cabman,  now  employed  on  the  tramway 
between  Paris  and  Versailles,  his  face  flushed  with 
wine  and  apoplexy,  but  still  lusty  and  active  under 
his  glazed  leather  hat,  surrounded  for  the  occasion 
by  a  heavy  crepe  band,  which  made  It  a  genuine 
"  mute's  "  hat,  — the  old  cabman  seemed  delighted 
by  his  reception  at  the  hands  of  his  daughter's 
gentlemauy  and  came  again  at  intervals,  to  break 
bread  with  them.  His  white  hair  a  la  Mr.  Punch, 
surrounding  his  shaven,  bloated  face,  his  majestic, 
tipsy  air,  the  respect  with  which  he  treated  his 
whip,  leaning  it  against  the  wall  In  a  safe  corner 
with  the  precautions  of  a  nurse,  made  a  deep  im- 
pression on  the  child ;  and  the  old  man  and  he  at 
once  became  very  intimate.  One  day,  just  as  they 
had  finished  dining  together,  the  Hettemas  sur- 
prised them. 

'^  Oh  !  excuse  us,  you  are  having  a  family  party," 
said  Madame,  in  a  mincing  tone,  and  the  words 
struck  Jean  in  the  face,  as  humiliating  as  a  blow. 

His  family!  That  foundhng  who  was  snoring 
with  his  head  on  the  cloth,  that  weather-beaten 
old  pirate,  with  his  pipe  stuck  in  the  corner  of 
his  mouth  and  the  voice  of  a  fishwife,  explaining 
for  the  hundredth  time  that  two  sous*  worth  of 
whipcord  would  last  him  six  months,  and  that  he 
had  n't  changed  his  handle  for  twenty  years  !  His 
family,  nonsense !  they  were  no  more  his  family 
than  she  was  his  wife,  that  Fanny  Legrand,  that 


Sappho.  153 

played  out,  prematurely  old  creature,  leaning  on 
her  elbows  amid  the  cigarette  smoke.  Within  a 
year  it  would  all  have  disappeared  from  his  life, 
leaving  only  the  vague  memory  of  travelling  ac- 
quaintances or  a  neighbor  at  table  d'hote. 

But  at  other  times  that  thought  of  approaching 
departure,  which  he  invoked  as  an  excuse  for  his 
weakness  when  he  felt  that  he  was  falling,  being 
dragged  lower  and  lower,  that  idea,  instead  of 
comforting  him,  of  encouraging  him,  caused  him 
to  feel  more  keenly  the  manifold  bonds  that  held 
him  fast,  to  realize  what  a  wrench  that  departure 
would  be,  not  one  rupture,  but  ten  ruptures,  and 
that  it  would  cost  him  dearly  to  let  go  that  little 
child's  hand,  which  rested  freely  in  his  at  night. 
Even  La  Balue,  the  golden  thrush  who  sang  and 
whistled  in  his  too  small  cage,  which  they  were 
always  going  to  change,  and  in  which  he  was  forced 
to  stoop,  like  the  old  cardinal  in  his  iron  cage,  —  yes, 
even  La  Balue  had  taken  possession  of  a  small 
corner  of  his  heart,  and  it  would  hurt  to  cast 
him  out. 

And  yet  that  inevitable  separation  was  drawing 
nigh ;  and  the  gorgeous  month  of  June,  which 
arrayed  all  nature  in  festal  garb,  would  probably 
be  the  last  they  would  pass  together.  Was  it  that 
that  made  her  nervous  and  irritable,  or  was  it  the 
burden  of  Josaph's  education,  which  she  had  un- 
dertaken with  sudden  ardor,  to  the  intense  disgust 
of  the  little  Morvandian,  who  sat  for  hours  staring 
at  his  letters  without  seeing  or  pronouncing  them, 
his  forehead  locked  with  a  bar  like  the  wings  of  a 


154  Sappho. 

farmyard  gate?  From  day  to  day  her  woman's 
nature  found  vent  in  violent  outbursts  and  in  tears, 
in  constantly  recurring  scenes,  although  Gaussin 
exerted  himself  to  be  indulgent;  but  she  was  so 
insulting,  her  wrath  exhaled  such  reeking  fumes 
of  malice  and  hatred  against  her  lover's  youth, 
his  education,  his  family,  the  gulf  between  their 
two  destinies,  which  fate  was  about  to  widen,  she 
was  so  skilful  in  touching  him  on  the  sensitive 
spots,  that  he  finally  lost  his  temper  too,  and 
answered  her. 

But  his  wrath  maintained  the  reserve,  the  com- 
passion of  a  man  of  good  breeding,  refrained  from 
dealing  blows  which  he  deemed  too  painful  and 
too  easily  dealt,  whereas  she  gave  free  rein  to  the 
bhnd  rage  of  a  prostitute,  devoid  of  responsibihty 
or  shame,  made  a  weapon  of  everything,  watched 
with  cruel  joy  on  her  victim's  face  the  contraction 
of  pain  which  she  caused,  then  suddenly  threw 
herself  into  his  arms  and  besought  his  forgiveness. 

The  faces  of  the  Hettemas,  when  they  were 
present  at  these  quarrels,  which  almost  always 
broke  out  at  the  table,  just  as  they  were  seated 
and  ready  to  remove  the  lid  of  the  soup  tureen  or 
plunge  the  knife  into  the  joint,  were  a  study  for 
a  painter.  They  would  exchange  a  glance  of 
comical  dismay  across  the  table.  Might  they  ven- 
ture to  eat,  or  was  the  leg  of  mutton  about  to  fly 
away  through  the  garden  with  the  platter,  the 
gravy,  and  the  stewed  beans? 

"  On  condition  that  there  's  to  be  no  scene  !  " 
they  would  say  whenever  there  was  a  suggestion 


Sappho.  155 

of  a  reunion  of  the  families;  and  that  was  the 
remark  with  which  they  greeted  a  project  for 
breakfasting  together  in  the  forest,  which  Fanny 
threw  at  them  over  the  wall  one  Sunday.  Oh,  no  ! 
they  would  not  quarrel  to-day ;  it  was  too  fine ! 
And  she  ran  to  dress  the  child  and  pack  the 
baskets. 

Everything  was  ready,  and  they  were  about  to 
start  when  the  postman  brought  a  stout  letter  for 
which  Gaussin  had  to  sign  a  receipt,  so  that  he 
was  detained.  He  overtook  the  party  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  woods,  and  said  to  Fanny  in  an 
undertone,  — 

"  It 's  from  my  uncle.  He  is  wild  with  delight. 
A  superb  crop,  sold  as  it  stands.  He  sends  back 
Dechelette's  eight  thousand  francs,  with  many 
thanks  and  comphments  for  his  niece." 

"  His  niece,  oh,  yes !  a  la  mode  de  Gascogne. 
The  old  wretch !  "  said  Fanny,  who  had  lost  all 
her  illusions  concerning  uncles  from  the  South. 
In  a  moment  she  added,  with  joyful  satisfaction : 
"  We  shall  have  to  invest  that  money." 

He  gazed  at  her  in  blank  amazement,  because 
he  had  found  her  always  very  scrupulous  in  money 
matters. 

*' Invest?  why,  it  isn't   yours." 

"Well,  you  see,  I  never  told  you — "with  the 
glance  which  lost  its  sparkle  at  the  slightest  de- 
parture from  the  truth ;  Dechelette,  like  the  good 
fellow  he  was,  having  heard  what  they  were  doing 
for  Josaph,  had  written  her  that  that  money  would 
help  them  to  bring  up  the  little  one.     "But  you 


156  Sappho, 

know,  if  it  annoys  you,  we  '11  send  back  his  eight 
thousand  francs ;   he 's  in  Paris." 

The  voice  of  Hettema,  who  had  discreetly  gone 
on  ahead  with  his  wife,  echoed  through  the  trees : 

*'To  the  right  or  left?" 

**To  the  right,  to  the  right, — to  the  Ponds!  " 
cried  Fanny;  then,  turning  to  her  lover:  **  Come, 
come,  you  're  not  going  to  begin  to  eat  your  heart 
out  over  trifles ;  we  're  an  old  couple,  deuce 
take  it!" 

She  knew  that  trembling  pallor  of  the  lips,  that 
glance  at  the  boy,  interrogating  him  from  head  to 
foot ;  but  this  time  there  was  only  a  momentary 
thrill  of  jealousy.  He  had  reached  now  the  stage 
of  acting  the  coward  from  habit,  of  conceding  any- 
thing for  the  sake  of  peace.  "  What  is  the  need 
of  tormenting  myself,  of  going  to  the  bottom  of 
things?  If  this  child  is  hers,  what  more  natural 
than  that  she  should  take  him  in  and  conceal 
the  truth  from  me  after  all  the  scenes,  all  the  ques- 
tionings, I  have  forced  her  to  submit  to  !  Is  n't  it 
better  to  take  things  as  they  are  and  pass  the  few 
remaining  months  in  peace?" 

And  he  plodded  along  the  forest  roads  through 
the  valley,  carrying  their  picnic  luncheon  in  its 
heavy  basket  covered  with  white  cloth,  resigned 
to  his  fate,  his  back  bent  like  an  aged  gardener's, 
while  the  mother  and  child  walked  together  in 
front  of  him,  Josaph  resplendent  and  awkward  in 
a  complete  outfit  from  the  Belle-JardinUre,  which 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  run,  she  in  a  light 
peignoivy  her  head  and  neck  bare  under  a  Japan- 


Sappho.  157 

ese  parasol,  her  waist  less  sylph-like  than  of  yore, 
indolent  of  gait,  and  in  her  lovely  twisted  hair  a 
broad  white  streak  which  she  no  longer  took  the 
trouble  to  conceal. 

In  front  of  them,  and  farther  down  the  sloping 
path,  the  Hettema  couple,  in  gigantic  straw  hats 
like  those  of  the  Touarez  horsemen,  dressed  in  red 
flannel  and  laden  with  provisions,  fishing  tackle, 
nets,  crab-spears;  and  the  wife,  to  lighten  her 
husband's  burden,  gallantly  wearing  saltire-wise 
across  her  colossal  breast  the  hunting-horn  with- 
out which  the  draughtsman  could  not  be  induced 
to  walk  in  the  forest.     As  they  walked,  they  sang : 

"  J'aime  entendre  la  rame 
Le  soir  battre  les  flots  ; 
J'aime  le  cerf  qui  brame  —  "^ 

Olympe's  repertory  of  those  sentimental  curb- 
stone ditties  was  inexhaustible;  and  when  one 
considered  where  she  had  picked  them  up,  in  the 
degrading  half-light  behind  closed  blinds,  and  to 
how  many  men  she  had  sung  them,  the  husband's 
serenity  as  he  sang  a  second  to  them  assumed  ex- 
traordinarily grand  proportions.  The  remark  of 
the  grenadier  at  Waterloo,  "■  There  are  too  many 
of  them,"  must  have  been  the  key  to  that  man's 
philosophical  indifference. 

While  Gaussin  musingly  watched  the  huge 
couple  plunge  into  a  hollow,  whither  he  followed 
them   at  a  short  distance,  a  creaking   of  wheels 

1  I  love  to  hear  the  oar 
Beating  the  waves  at  night ; 
I  love  the  braying  stag  — 


158  Sappho, 

came  up  the  path  with  a  volley  of  hearty  laughter 
and  childish  voices ;  and  suddenly,  a  few  steps 
away,  a  wagon-load  of  little  girls,  ribbons,  and 
waving  hair  appeared,  in  an  English  cart  drawn 
by  a  little  donkey,  with  a  young  girl,  hardly  older 
than  the  others,  leading  him  by  the  bridle  over 
that  rough  road. 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  Jean  belonged  to  the 
party  whose  heterodox  costumes,  especially  that 
of  the  fat  woman  with  a  hunting-horn  slung  over 
her  shoulder,  had  excited  the  young  people  to 
inextinguishable  laughter ;  and  the  older  girl  tried 
to  impose  silence  on  them  for  a  moment.  But 
that  other  Touarez  hat  called  forth  a  still  louder 
burst  of  mocking  laughter ;  and  as  she  passed  the 
man  who  stood  aside  to  make  room  for  the  little 
cart,  a  pretty  smile  tinged  with  embarrassment 
asked  his  pardon,  and  expressed  naive  surprise 
to  find  that  the  old  gardener's  face  was  so  youth- 
ful and  attractive. 

He  bowed  timidly,  blushed  with  no  very  clear 
idea  as  to  what  he  was  ashamed  of;  and  as  the 
cart  stopped  at  the  top  of  the  hill  at  a  cross-road, 
and  a  babel  of  little  voices  read  aloud  the  names 
on  the  sign-post,  half-effaced  by  the  rain,  "  Road 
to  the  Ponds,"  *^  The  Grand  Huntsman's  Oak," 
"  False  Repose,"  "  Road  to  Velizy,"  Jean  turned 
and  watched  them  disappear  in  the  green  path 
flecked  with  sunlight  and  carpeted  with  moss, 
where  the  wheels  rolled  as  on  velvet,  —  a  whirl- 
wind of  fair-haired  childhood,  a  wagon-load  of 
happiness  arrayed   in  the  colors   of  spring,  with 


Sappho,  159 

laughter  exploding  like  fireworks  under  the 
branches. 

A  fierce  blast  on  Hettema's  bugle,  roused  him 
abruptly  from  his  reverie.  They  had  estabhshed 
themselves  on  the  shore  of  the  pond  and  were 
unpacking  the  provisions;  and  from  a  distance 
one  could  see  in  the  water  the  reflection  of  the 
white  cloth  spread  on  the  short  grass,  and  of  the 
red  flannel  jackets  standing  out  amid  the  verdure 
like  a  huntsman's  pink  coat. 

**  Come,  hurry  up ;  you  have  the  lobster !  "  cried 
the  fat  man ;   and  Fanny's  nervous  voice  added,  — 

*'  Was  it  little  Bouchereau  who  stopped  you  on 
the  road  ?  " 

Jean  started  at  the  name  of  Bouchereau,  which 
carried  him  back  to  Castelet,  to  his  sick  mother's 
bedside. 

"■  Yes,"  said  the  draughtsman,  taking  the  basket 
from  his  hands ;  "  the  tall  one,  the  one  leading  the 
pony,  is  the  doctor's  niece.  A  daughter  of  his 
brother,  whom  he  has  taken  into  his  family.  They 
live  at  Velizy  in  summer.     She  's  a  pretty  girl." 

"  Oh  !  very  pretty,  — especially  that  brazen-faced 
air."  And  Fanny  as  she  cut  the  bread,  watched  her 
lover,  disturbed  by  the  far-away  look  in  his  eyes. 

Madame  Hettema,  unpacking  the  ham  the  while, 
solemnly  expressed  her  disapprobation  of  that 
fashion  of  allowing  young  girls  to  roam  about  the 
woods  at  will.  ''You  will  tell  me  that  it's  the 
English  way,  and  that  she  was  brought  up  in 
London ;  but  that  does  n't  make  any  difference,  it 
really  isn't  proper." 


i6o  Sappho, 

"  No,  but  very  convenient  for  adventures.'* 

"Oh!  Fanny  —  " 

"  Excuse  me,  I  forgot ;  Monsieur  believes  in  in- 
nocent girls." 

"  Come,  come,  suppose  we  have  our  luncheon,'* 
said  Hettema,  beginning  to  take  alarm.  But  Fanny 
must  needs  tell  all  she  knew  about  young  girls  in 
society.  She  had  some  fine  stories  on  that  sub- 
ject ;  convents,  boarding-schools,  were  the  scenes  of 
them.  Girls  left  those  establishments  worn  out, 
withered,  disgusted  with  men,  not  even  capable  of 
having  children.  "  And  then  they  give  them  to 
you,  you  dupes!  An  ingmue !  As  if  there  was 
any  such  thing  as  an  ingenue  I  as  if  all  girls,  in 
society  or  not  in  society,  did  n't  know  from  their 
birth  what 's  what !  I  myself  had  nothing  to  learn 
when  I  was  twelve  years  old ;  nor  had  you, 
Olympe,  eh?" 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Madame  Hettema,  with  a 
shrug ;  but  the  fate  of  the  luncheon  engrossed  her 
attention  when  she  heard  Gaussin,  whose  temper 
was  rising,  declare  that  there  were  girls  and  girls, 
and  that  one  could  still  find  in  some  families  — 

"  Oh  !  yes,  families,"  retorted  his  mistress,  scorn- 
fully, "  I  like  to  hear  you  talk  about  families ; 
especially  your  own." 

"Hush!  I  forbid  you  — " 

"  Bourgeois !  " 

"  Wretch !  Luckily  this  will  soon  end.  I 
have  n't  much  longer  to  live  with  you." 

"  Go,  go  !   clear  out !   I  shall  be  glad  enough." 

They  were  hurling  insults  at  each  other's  heads. 


Sappho,  i6i 

before  the  maliciously  inquisitive  child,  who  lay- 
face  downward  in  the  grass,  when  a  terrible  blast 
from  the  bugle,  repeated  in  a  hundred  echoes  by 
the  pond  and  the  terraced  masses  of  the  forest, 
suddenly  drowned  their  dispute. 

"  Have  you  had  enough  of  it?  Do  you  want  me 
to  do  it  again?"  And  the  bulky  Hettema,  with 
purple  cheeks  and  swollen  neck,  unable  to  find  any 
other  way  of  making  them  hold  their  peace,  waited, 
with  the  mouthpiece  to  his  lips  and  the  orifice 
threatening  to  belch  forth  afresh. 


IV 


1 62  Sappho. 


IX. 


Their  quarrels  usually  lasted  but  a  short  time, 
vanishing  under  the  influence  of  a  little  music  and 
Fanny's  effusive  cajolery;  but  this  time  he  was 
more  seriously  angry  with  her,  and  for  several  days 
in  succession  kept  the  same  wrinkle  on  his  brow 
and  maintained  the  same  indignant  silence,  sitting 
down  to  draw  immediately  after  meals  and  refusing 
to  go  anywhere  with  her. 

It  was  as  if  he  were  suddenly  ashamed  of  the 
abject  life  he  was  leading,  afraid  of  meeting  again 
the  little  cart  ascending  the  path  and  that  guile- 
less youthful  smile  of  which  he  thought  constantly. 
Then,  with  the  confusion  of  a  vanishing  dream,  of 
scenery  broken  to  facilitate  the  transformations  of 
a  fairy  spectacle,  the  apparition  became  indistinct, 
faded  away  in  the  windings  of  the  forest  path,  and 
Jean  saw  it  no  more.  But  there  remained  in  him  a 
substratum  of  melancholy  of  which  Fanny  thought 
that  sihe  knew  the  cause,  and  she  determined  to 
banish  it. 

*'  I  have  done  it,"  she  said  to  him  joyfully  one 
day.  *'  I  have  seen  Dechelette.  I  have  returned 
the  money  to  him.  He  agrees  with  you  that  it  is 
better  so ;  upon  my  word,  I  wonder  why.  How- 
ever, it 's  done.     Later,  when  I  am  alone,  he  will 


Sappho.  163 

remember  the  little  one.  Are  you  satisfied  ?  Are 
you  still  angry  with  me?" 

And  she  described  her  visit  to  Rue  de  Rome,  her 
amazement  at  finding  there,  instead  of  the  wild, 
noisy,  caravansary  filled  with  excited  crowds,  a 
tranquil,  bourgeois  household,  governed  by  very 
strict  rules.  No  more  revels,  no  more  fancy-dress 
balls ;  and  the  explanation  of  the  change,  written  in 
chalk  over  the  small  door  of  the  studio  by  some 
parasite,  enraged  at  being  refused  admittance: 
"  Closed  by  reason  of  marriage." 

''And  that's  the  truth,  my  dear.  D6chelette, 
soon  after  arriving  in  Paris,  lost  his  head  over  a 
skating-rink  girl,  Alice  Dore;  he  has  had  her 
with  him  a  month,  keeping  house,  actually  keep- 
ing house !  A  very  nice,  sweet  little  creature,  a 
pretty  lamb.  They  make  very  little  noise  both 
together.  I  promised  that  we  would  go  and  see 
them ;  that  will  be  a  little  change  for  us  from  hunt- 
ing-horns and  barcaroles.  What  do  you  say  now 
to  the  philosopher  and  his  theories?  No  to-mor- 
row, no  collage}     Ah  !  I  chaffed  him  well !  " 

Jean  allowed  himself  to  be  taken  to  Dechelette's, 
whom  he  had  not  seen  since  their  meeting  at  the 
Madeleine.  He  would  have  been  vastly  surprised 
then  if  any  one  had  told  him  that  there  would  come 
a  time  when  he  would  fraternize  without  a  feeling 
of  disgust  with  that  cynical  and  disdainful  former 
lover  of  his  mistress,  and  become  almost  his  friend. 
Even  at  that  first  visit,  he  was  surprised  to  feel  so 

^  A  slang  expression  meaning  —  living  as  husband  and  wife 
though  unmarried. 


164  Sappho, 

much  at  home,  charmed  by  the  gentle  nature  and 
the  ingenuous,  kindly  laughter  of  that  man  with  the 
beard  of  a  Cossack  and  with  a  serenity  of  disposi- 
tion undisturbed  by  the  painful  antics  of  his  liver, 
which  gave  a  leaden  tinge  to  his  complexion  and 
the  circles  around  his  eyes. 

And  how  readily  one  could  understand  the  affec- 
tion he  inspired  in  that  Alice  Dor6,  with  her  long, 
soft,  white  hands  and  her  insignificant  blond  beauty, 
heightened  by  the  splendor  of  her  Flemish  flesh, 
as  golden  {doree)  as  her  name,  by  the  glint  of  gold 
in  her  hair  and  in  her  eyelashes,  fringing  the  eye- 
Hds  and  making  the  skin  sparkle  even  to  the  nails. 

Picked  up  by  Dechelette  on  the  asphalt  of  the 
skating-rink,  among  the  vulgarities  and  brutalities 
of  the  crowd,  and  the  clouds  of  smoke  which  a 
man,  as  he  cuts  a  flourish,  blows  into  the  painted 
face  of  a  strumpet,  she  had  been  surprised  and 
touched  by  his  courtesy.  She  found  herself  a 
woman  once  more  instead  of  the  poor  beast  of 
pleasure  she  had  been ;  and  when  he  would  have 
sent  her  away  in  the  morning,  conformably  to  his 
theories,  with  a  hearty  breakfast  and  a  few  louis, 
her  heart  was  so  heavy,  she  said  to  him  so  gently 
and  so  earnestly,  "  Keep  me  a  httle  longer !  "  that 
he  had  not  the  courage  to  refuse.  Afterwards, 
partly  from  self-respect,  partly  from  weariness,  he 
kept  his  door  locked  on  that  fortuitous  honey- 
moon, which  he  passed  in  the  cool  tranquillity  of 
his  summer  palace,  so  admirably  supplied  with  the 
comforts  of  life  ;  and  they  lived  thus  very  happily, 
she  because  of  such  tender  consideration  as  she 


Sappho,  165 

had  never  known,  he  because  of  the  happiness 
which  he  was  bestowing  upon  that  poor  creature 
and  her  gratitude,  being  subjected  thus  for  the 
first  time,  and  without  reaHzing  it,  to  the  penetra- 
ting charm  of  real  intimacy  with  a  woman,  the 
mysterious  enchantment  of  Hfe  a  dctix,  in  commu- 
nity of  kindness  of  heart  and  gentleness  of  nature. 

To  Gaussin  the  studio  on  Rue  de  Rome  was  a 
diversion  from  the  base  and  degrading  environ- 
ment of  his  life  as  a  petty  clerk  with  an  illegitimate 
household ;  he  enjoyed  the  conversation  of  that 
scholar  with  artistic  tastes,  of  that  philosopher  in 
a  Persian  dressing-gown  as  airy  and  loose  as  his 
doctrines,  and  the  tales  of  travel  which  Dechelette 
told  in  the  fewest  possible  words,  and  which  were 
so  appropriate  among  the  Oriental  hangings,  the 
gilded  Buddhas,  the  bronze  chimeras,  the  exotic 
luxuriousness  of  that  vast  hall  where  the  light  fell 
from  a  high  window,  the  same  light  that  we  find 
in  the  heart  of  a  park,  stirred  by  the  slender  foli- 
age of  the  bamboos,  by  the  denticulated  fronds  of 
the  tree-ferns,  and  the  enormous  leaves  of  the  siil- 
lingiaSy  mingled  with  philodendrons  as  thin  and  flex- 
ible as  water-plants  seeking  shade  and  moisture. 

On  Sunday  especially,  with  the  great  bay- 
window  looking  on  a  deserted  street  of  Paris  in 
summer,  there  was  almost  as  much  country  and 
forest  there  as  at  Chaville,  minus  the  promiscu- 
ousness  of  the  company  and  the  Hett^mas'  hunting- 
horn.  There  was  never  any  company ;  but  on  one 
occasion  Gaussin  and  his  mistress,  arriving  for 
dinner,  heard  several  voices  in  animated  conver- 


1 66  Sappho, 

satlon  as  soon  as  they  entered  the  house.  Night 
was  falling,  they  were  drinking  raki  in  the  conser- 
vatory, and  the  discussion  seemed  to  be  quite 
warm. 

"  For  my  part,  I  consider  that  five  years  in 
Mazas,  the  loss  of  one's  name,  and  the  ruin  of 
one's  life,  are  a  high  price  to  pay  for  an  act  of 
passion  and  madness.  I  '11  sign  your  petition, 
Dechelette." 

**  That 's  Caoudal,"  whispered  Fanny,  with  a 
start. 

Some  one  rejoined,  with  a  pitilessly  curt  refusal : 
"  For  my  part,  I  '11  sign  nothing.  I  '11  not  connect 
myself  in  any  way  with  that  rascal." 

"■  And  that 's  La  Gournerie  !  "  said  Fanny;  press- 
ing close  to  her  lover,  she  murmured :  *'  Let  us  go, 
if  it  annoys  you  to  see  them." 

"Why  so?  not  at  all."  In  reality  he  was  not 
quite  certain  how  he  should  feel  when  he  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  those  men,  but  he  did 
not  propose  to  shirk  the  test,  being  desirous  per- 
haps to  ascertain  the  present  extent  of  that  jeal- 
ousy which  had  formed  so  large  a  part  of  his 
wretched  love-affair. 

"  Let  us  go  in  !  "  he  said ;  and  they  made  their 
appearance  in  the  reddish  light  of  the  close  of  day, 
which  shone  upon  the  bald  heads  and  grizzly 
beards  of  Dechelette's  friends  as  they  reclined  on 
the  low  divans  around  an  Oriental  table  with  three 
legs,  on  which  the  spiced  and  milky  beverage 
which  Alice  was  serving  trembled  in  five  or  six 
glasses.     The  women  kissed.     ''  You  know  these 


Sappho,  167 

gentlemen,  Gaussin?"  said  Dechelette,  rocking 
gently  in  his  chair. 

Did  he  know  them?  Two^  of  them  at  least  were 
familiar  to  him,  by  virtue  of  his  having  stared  at 
their  pictures  for  hours  in  the  show-cases  of  celeb- 
rities. How  they  had  made  him  suffer,  what  bitter 
hatred  he  had  conceived  for  them,  the  hatred  of  a 
successor,  a  fierce  longing  to  leap  upon  them  when 
he  met  them  in  the  street,  and  claw  their  faces ! 
But  Fanny  had  well  said  that  that  would  pass 
away;  now  they  were  simply  the  faces  of  ac- 
quaintances, almost  of  kinsmen,  distant  uncles 
whom  he   saw  again  after  many  years. 

"  The  youngster  *s  still  handsome  !  "  said  Ca- 
oudal,  his  gigantic  form  stretched  out  at  full 
length,  holding  a  screen  over  his  eyes  to  protect 
them  from  the  glare.  *'  And,  Fanny,  let  us  look 
at  you !  "  He  lifted  himself  on  his  elbow  and 
winked  his  expert  eyes :  ''  The  face  still  holds  its 
own;  but  the  waist,  —  you  do  well  to  lace  good 
and  tight ;  however,  console  yourself,  my  girl.  La 
Gournerie  is  stouter  than  you  are." 

The  poet  pursed  up  his  thin  lips  disdainfully. 
Sitting  Turkish  fashion  on  his  pile  of  cushions,  — 
since  his  trip  to  Algiers  he  claimed  that  he  could 
sit  no  other  way,  —  an  enormous,  pulpy  mass,  with 
no  trace  of  intelligence  remaining  save  his  noble 
forehead  beneath  a  white  forest,  and  his  stern 
negro-like  glance,  he  affected  a  well-bred  reserve 
with  Fanny,  an  exaggerated  courtesy,  as  if  to  give 
Caoudal  a  lesson. 

Two  landscape  painters  with  sun-burned,  rustic 


1 68  Sappho, 

faces  completed  the  party ;  they  too  knew  Jean's 
mistress,  and  the  younger  of  them  said  to  her, 
pressing  her  hand,  — 

**  Dechelette  has  told  us  the  story  of  the  child, 
and  what  you  have  done  is  very  fine,  my  dear." 

*'  Yes,"  said  Caoudal  to  Gaussin ;  "  yes,  exceed- 
ingly chic.     Not  in  the  least  provincial." 

She  seemed  embarrassed  by  their  laudatory 
words;  but  at  that  moment  some  one  stumbled 
against  a  piece  of  furniture  in  the  dark  studio, 
and  a  voice  inquired,  "  No  one  here?  " 

*'  Here  's  Ezano,"  said  Dechelette. 

Jean  had  never  seen  him ;  but  he  knew  how  great 
a  place  that  Bohemian,  that  imaginative  creature, 
now  reformed  and  married,  and  chief  of  a  division 
at  the  Beaux- Arts,  had  played  in  Fanny  Legrand's 
life,  and  he  remembered  a  package  of  passionate 
and  charming  letters.  A  small  man  came  forward, 
hollow-cheeked,  wrinkled,  walking  stiffly,  who  gave 
his  hand  at  a  distance,  kept  people  at  arm's  length 
as  a  result  of  the  habit  of  speaking  from  a  plat- 
form, of  administrative  exclusiveness.  He  seemed 
much  surprised  to  see  Fanny,  especially  to  find  her 
still  lovely  after  so  many  years. 

"  Why,  Sappho  !  "  and  a  furtive  flush  enlivened 
his  cheek-bones. 

That  name  Sappho,  which  carried  her  back  to 
the  past,  and  brought  her  nearer  to  all  her  former 
lovers,  caused  a  certain  embarrassment. 

"  And  this  is  Monsieur  d'Armandy,  who  brought 
her,"  said  Dechelette,  hastily,  to  warn  the  new- 
comer.    Ezano  bowed ;  they  began  to  talk. 


Sappho.  169 

Fanny,  reassured  when  she  saw  how  her  lover 
took  the  state  of  affairs,  and  being  proud  of  him, 
of  his  beauty  and  his  youth,  in  that  party  of  art- 
ists and  connoisseurs,  was  very  animated,  in  high 
feather.  Engrossed  by  her  present  passion,  she 
hardly  remembered  her  liaisons  with  those  men ; 
but  years  of  cohabitation,  of  life  in  common,  left 
behind  them  the  stamp  of  habits,  of  peculiarities 
communicated  by  contact  and  surviving  it,  even 
to  the  way  of  rolling  cigarettes,  which,  like  her 
preference  for  Maryland  tobacco,  was  a  legacy 
from  Ezano, 

Without  the  slightest  annoyance  Jean  remarked 
that  little  detail,  which  would  once  have  exasper- 
ated him,  experiencing,  when  he  found  how  calm 
he  was,  the  joy  of  a  prisoner  who  has  filed  his 
chains  and  feels  that  a  slight  effort  will  suffice  for 
his  escape. 

"  Hein  !  my  dear  Fanny,"  said  Caoudal,  in  a 
chaffing  tone,  pointing  to  the  others,  "  what  a 
faUing  off!  see  how  old  they  are,  how  they've 
flattened  out !  we  two  are  the  only  ones  who  hold 
our  own." 

Fanny  began  to  laugh :  "  Ah !  I  beg  your  par- 
don, colonel,"  —  he  was  called  so  sometimes  be- 
cause of  his  moustaches,  — "  it  is  n't  altogether 
the  same  thing.     I  'm  of  another  promotion." 

"  Caoudal  always  forgets  that  he  's  an  old  fogy,'* 
said  La  Gournerie;  and  at  a  gesture  from  the 
sculptor,  whom  he  knew  that  he  had  touched  to 
the  quick,  he  cried  in  his  strident  voice :  '*  Medal 
of  1840;  that 's  a  date  to  reckon  from,  my  boy !  " 


1 70  Sappho. 

Those  two  old  friends  always  adopted  an  aggres- 
sive tone  toward  each  other ;  there  was  an  under- 
current of  antipathy  between  them,  which  had 
never  separated  them,  but  which  came  to  the  sur- 
face in  their  glances,  in  their  lightest  words ;  and 
it  dated  from  the  day  when  the  poet  stole  the 
sculptor's  mistress.  Fanny  was  no  longer  of  any 
consequence  to  them ;  they  had  both  known  other 
joys,  other  mortifications,  but  the  bitterness  re- 
mained, sinking  deeper  and  deeper  with  the  years. 

"  Just  look  at  us  two,  and  say  honestly  whether 
I  am  the  old  fogy  !  "  Caoudal  stood  erect,  in  the 
tightly  fitting  jacket,  which  showed  his  bulging 
muscles,  with  his  chest  thrown  out,  shaking  his 
fiery  mane  in  which  not  a  white  hair  could  be  seen. 

"  Medal  of  1840,  —  fifty-eight  years  old  in  three 
months.  Even  so,  what  does  that  prove?  Is  it 
age  that  makes  old  men  ?  It 's  only  at  the  Come- 
die-Francaise  and  the  Conservatoire  that  men 
drool  at  sixty  and  keep  their  heads  nodding  and 
totter  along  with  bent  back  and  limp  legs  and 
senile  tricks  of  all  sorts.  Sacrebleu!  at  sixty  a 
man  's  more  erect  than  at  thirty,  because  he  takes 
care  of  himself;  and  the  women  will  love  you  still 
as  long  as  your  heart  remains  young  and  warms 
and  stirs  up  your  whole  carcass." 

''  Do  you  think  so?"  said  La  Gournerie,  glanc- 
ing at  Fanny  with  a  sneer.  And  Dechelette  re- 
joined with  his  kindly  smile, — 

"  And  yet  you  always  said  that  there  's  nothing 
like  youth ;  you  're  a  tiresome  fellow." 

"It   was   my   little    Cousinard    who   made    me 


Sappho.  171 

change  my  views,  —  Cousinard,  my  new  model. 
Eighteen  years  old,  rounded  outlines,  dimples 
everywhere,  a  Clodeon.  And  such  a  bright  one, 
such  a  typical  child  of  the  people,  of  the  Paris  of 
the  Market,  where  her  mother  sells  poultry !  She 
makes  absurd  remarks  that  make  you  want  to  kiss 
her;  on  my  word,  they  do.  The  other  day  in  the 
studio  she  takes  up  one  of  Dejoie's  novels,  looks 
at  the  title,  Therhe,  and  throws  it  down  again  with 
her  pretty  little  pout :  *  If  he  'd  called  it  Poor 
Therese,  I  'd  have  read  it  all  night ! '  I  am  mad 
over  her,  I  tell  you." 

"  Before  you  know  it  you  '11  be  keeping  house. 
And  six  months  hence  another  rupture,  tears  as 
big  as  your  fist,  distaste  for  work,  and  fits  of  tem- 
per when  you  want  to  kill  everybody." 

Caoudal's  brow  grew  dark. 

"  It  is  true  that  nothing  lasts.  We  take  up  with 
one  another,  then  part  —  " 

"  In  that  case  why  take  up  with  one  another?" 

**  Indeed,  and  what  about  yourself  ?  Do  you 
think  that  you  are  settled  for  life  with  your 
Fleming?" 

"  Oh !  as  for  us,  we  are  not  housekeeping,  are 
we,  Alice?" 

"  Of  course  not,"  replied  the  girl,  in  a  sweet, 
distraught  voice;  she  was  standing  on  a  chair 
picking  glycine  and  leaves  to  decorate  the  table. 
Dechelette  continued, — 

"  There  '11  be  no  rupture  between  us,  hardly  a 
parting.  We  have  taken  a  lease  of  two  months  to 
be  passed  together ;  on  the  last  day  we  shall  sepa- 


172  Sappho. 

rate  without  surprise  on  either  side  and  without 
despair.  I  shall  return  to  Ispahan,  —  !  have  al- 
ready taken  my  berth  in  the  sleeper,  —  and  Alice 
to  her  Httle  apartment  on  Rue  La  Bruyere,  which 
she  has  not  given  up." 

''  On  the  third  floor  above  the  entresol,  the  most 
convenient  place  in  the  world  for  throwing  one- 
self out  of  window  !  " 

As  she  spoke  the  young  woman  smiled,  red- 
cheeked  and  luminous  in  the  fading  light,  her 
heavy  bunch  of  purple  flowers  in  her  hand ;  but 
the  tone  of  her  voice  was  so  deep,  so  solemn,  that 
no  one  replied.  The  wind  freshened ;  the  houses 
opposite  seemed  taller. 

"  Let  us  adjourn  to  the  table,"  cried  the  colonel, 
"  and  let  us  say  idiotic  things." 

*' Yes,  that's  the  id^diy gaudeamus  igitur,  —  let  us 
amuse  ourselves  while  we're  young,  eh,  Caoudal?" 
said  La  Gournerie,  with  a  laugh  that  rang  false. 

A  few  days  later  Jean  went  again  to  Rue  de 
Rome;  he  found  the  studio  closed,  the  great 
canvas  shade  lowered  over  the  window,  death- 
like silence  from  the  cellar  to  the  terraced  roof. 
Dechelette  had  gone  at  the  appointed  time,  the 
lease  having  expired.  And  he  thought :  *'  It  is  a 
fine  thing  to  do  what  one  chooses  in  hfe,  to  gov- 
ern one's  mind  and  one's  heart.  Shall  I  ever  have 
the  courage  to  do  what  he  has  done?  " 

A  hand  was  placed  on  his  shoulder. 

*'  How  are  you,  Gaussin  ?  " 

Dechelette,  looking  worn  and  weary,  sallower 


Sappho.  173 

and  sterner  than  usual,  explained  to  him  that  he 
had  not  yet  left  Paris,  being  detained  by  some 
business  matters,  and  that  he  was  living  at  the 
Grand  Hotel,  having  a  horror  of  the  studio  since 
that  frightful  thing  happened  there. 

**  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"To  be  sure,  you  don't  know.  Alice  is  dead. 
She  killed  herself.  Wait  a  moment,  till  I  see  if 
there  are  any  letters  for  me." 

He  returned  almost  immediately;  and  as  he  tore 
the  wrappers  from  the  newspapers  with  nervous 
fingers,  he  talked  in  a  low  voice,  like  a  somnambu- 
list, without  looking  at  Gaussin,  who  was  walking 
beside  him, — 

"  Yes,  killed  herself,  threw  herself  out  of  the 
window,  as  she  said  the  evening  you  were  there. 
What  would  you  have?  for  my  part,  I  did  not 
know,  I  could  not  suspect.  The  day  I  was  to  go, 
she  said  to  me  calmly :  *  Take  me,  Dechelette ; 
don't  leave  me  alone ;  I  can't  live  without  you 
now. '  That  made  me  laugh.  Imagine  me  with 
a  woman  among  those  Kurds !  The  desert,  the 
fever,  the  nights  in  camp.  At  dinner  she  said 
again  :  *  I  won't  be  in  your  way ;  you  will  see  how 
good  I  '11  be.'  Then,  seeing  that  she  annoyed  me, 
she  did  not  insist  any  farther.  Later,  we  went  to 
the  Varietes,  where  we  had  a  box;  it  was  all 
planned  beforehand.  She  seemed  satisfied,  held 
my  hand  all  the  time,  and  whispered,  *  I  am 
happy.*  As  I  was  to  start  during  the  night,  I 
carried  her  home  in  a  cab ;  we  were  both  of  us 
very  melancholy,  did  not  say  a  word.     She  did  n't 


1 74  Sappho, 

even  thank  me  for  a  little  package  which  I  slipped 
into  her  pocket,  to  enable  her  to  live  in  comfort 
for  a  year  or  two.  When  we  reached  Rue  La 
Bruyere,  she  asked  me  to  go  up.  I  refused.  '  I 
entreat  you,  just  as  far  as  the  door.'  But  when  I 
got  there,  I  held  to  my  word ;  I  would  not  go  in. 
My  berth  was  taken,  my  trunk  packed,  and,  be- 
sides, I  had  talked  too  much  about  going.  As  I 
went  downstairs,  a  little  heavy-hearted,  I  heard 
her  call  after  me  something  that  sounded  hke, 
*  Sooner  than  you,'  but  I  did  n't  understand  till 
I  got  down  to  the  street.     Oh  !  " 

He  paused,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  before 
the  horrible  vision  which  the  sidewalk  presented 
now  at  every  step,  that  black,  inert  mass  in  the 
agony  of  death. 

'^  She  died  two  hours  later,  without  a  word,  with- 
out a  complaint,  her  golden  eyes  looking  into 
mine.  Did  she  suffer?  Did  she  recognize  me? 
We  laid  her  on  her  bed,  fully  dressed,  a  long  lace 
mantle  wrapped  around  her  head  on  one  side  to 
conceal  the  wound  in  her  skull.  Very  pale,  with 
a  little  blood  on  her  temple,  she  was  pretty  still, 
and  so  sweet  and  gentle  !  But  as  I  stooped  to 
wipe  away  that  drop  of  blood,  which  was  instantly 
replaced  by  another,  from  an  inexhaustible  source, 
her  face  seemed  to  me  to  assume  an  indignant, 
terrible  expression.  It  was  as  if  the  poor  girl 
hurled  a  silent  malediction  at  me.  Indeed,  what 
harm  would  it  have  done  to  remain  here  a  little 
longer,  or  to  take  her  with  me,  ready  for  anything 
as  she  was,  and  so  little  trouble  ?    No  pride,  but  ob- 


Sappho,  175 

stinacy  in  keeping  to  what  I  had  said  —  Well,  I 
did  not  yield,  and  she  is  dead,  dead  by  my  fault; 
and  yet  I  loved  her." 

He  grew  more  and  more  excited,  talked  very 
loud,  to  the  amazement  of  the  people  whom  he 
jostled  as  they  walked  down  Rue  d' Amsterdam; 
and  Gaussin,  as  he  passed  his  former  lodging, 
whose  balcony  and  zinc  tent  he  could  see  from 
the  street,  thought  of  Fanny  and  their  own  story, 
and  felt  a  shudder  run  through  his  veins  as  Deche- 
lette  continued :  — 

"  I  took  her  to  Montparnasse,  without  friends  or 
relatives.  I  wanted  to  be  alone  to  think  about 
her.  And  since  then  I  have  stayed  on  here, 
always  thinking  of  the  same  thing,  unable  to 
make  up  my  mind  to  go  away,  with  that  idea 
in  full  possession  of  me,  and  avoiding  my  house, 
where  I  passed  two  months  so  happily  with  her. 
I  live  out  of  doors ;  I  go  from  place  to  place ; 
I  try  to  distract  my  thoughts,  to  escape  that  dead 
woman's  eye,  which  accuses  me  under  a  thread 
of  blood." 

Possessed  by  his  remorse,  he  stopped,  while  two 
great  tears  glided  down  his  little  flat  nose,  so 
kindly,  so  in  love  with  life,  and  said, — 

''  So  it  is,  my  friend ;  and  yet  I  am  not 
cruel.  But  what  I  did  was  a  little  hard,  all  the 
same." 

Jean  tried  to  comfort  him,  attributing  everything 
to  chance,  to  an  unkind  fate ;  but  Dechelette, 
shaking  his  head,  repeated  through  his  clenched 
teeth,  — 


1 76  Sappho, 

''  No,  no ;  I  shall  never  forgive  myself.  I  would 
like  to  punish  myself." 

That  longing  for  expiation  did  not  cease  to 
haunt  him ;  he  talked  about  it  to  all  his  friends,  to 
Gaussin,  whom  he  went  to  the  office  to  meet  in 
the  afternoon. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  away,  D6chelette  ?  Travel, 
work;  it  will  divert  your  mind,"  Caoudal  and  the 
others  said  to  him  again  and  again,  being  a  little 
disturbed  by  his  fixed  idea,  by  his  persistence  in 
repeating  that  he  was  not  naturally  cruel.  At  last, 
one  evening,  —  whether  it  was  that  he  had  felt  a 
desire  to  see  the  studio  once  more  before  going 
away,  or  that  he  had  gone  thither  in  pursuance  of 
a  fixed  determination  to  put  an  end  to  his  misery, 
—  he  returned  to  his  own  house  ;  and  in  the  morn- 
ing, workmen,  going  down  from  the  faubourg  to 
their  work,  found  him,  with  his  skull  fractured,  on 
the  sidewalk  in  front  of  his  door,  dead  by  the 
same  form  of  suicide  as  the  woman,  with  the  same 
shocking  circumstances,  the  same  horrible  com- 
motion caused  by  despair  cast  naked  into  the 
street. 

In  the  half-light  of  the  studio,  a  crowd  of  artists, 
models,  actresses,  all  the  dancers,  all  the  guests  of 
the  latest  festivities,  pushed  and  jostled  one  another. 
There  was  a  noise  of  tramping  feet  and  whisper- 
ing, the  sounds  of  a  mortuary  chapel  under  the 
short  flame  of  the  tapers.  Through  the  convol- 
vuli  and  the  foliage  they  gazed  at  the  body,  dressed 
in  a  gown  of  flowered  silk  with  gold  flowers,  a 


Sappho.  177 

turban  on  the  head  to  hide  the  ghastly  wound, 
lying  at  full  length,  the  white  hands  by  the  sides 
in  an  attitude  that  told  of  the  final  collapse  and 
surrender,  on  the  low  couch,  shaded  by  glycines, 
where  Gaussin  and  his  mistress  had  become  ac- 
quainted on  the  night  of  the  ball. 


13 


178  Sappho. 


X. 


So  these  ruptures  sometimes  ended  in  death ! 
Now,  when  they  quarrelled,  Jean  no  longer  dared 
to  mention  his  departure,  he  no  longer  exclaimed 
in  his  exasperation :  *'  Luckily  this  won't  last 
long."  She  would  simply  have  had  to  retort: 
"Very  well,  go;  I  will  kill  myself;  I  will  do  as 
she  did."  And  that  threat,  which  he  fancied  that 
he  could  read  in  her  melancholy  expression,  in 
the  melancholy  songs  she  sang,  and  in  her  reveries 
when  she  was  silent,  disturbed  him  even  to  terror. 

Meanwhile  he  had  passed  the  examination  which 
closes  the  stage  of  service  in  the  department  offices 
for  consular  attaches ;  as  he  had  acquitted  himself 
creditably,  he  would  be  appointed  to  one  of  the 
first  vacant  posts,  —  it  was  only  a  matter  of  weeks, 
of  days  !  And  all  about  them,  in  those  last  days 
of  the  season,  as  the  hours  of  sunlight  grew  shorter 
and  shorter,  everything  was  hastening  on  toward 
the  changes  that  winter  brings.  One  morning 
Fanny  cried,  as  she  opened  the  window  to  the 
first  fog, — 

"  Look,  the  swallows  have  gone  !  " 

One  after  another  the  bourgeois  country  houses 
put  up  their  shutters ;  on  the  Versailles  road  there 
was  a  constant  succession  of  furniture  vans,  of 
great  country  omnibuses  laden  with  bundles,  with 


Sappho.  179 

plumes  of  green  plants  on  the  roof,  while  the 
leaves  blew  away  in  eddying  multitudes,  swept 
along  like  flying  clouds  under  the  low  sky,  and 
the  windmills  stood  alone  in  the  bare  fields.  Be- 
hind the  orchard,  stripped  of  its  fruits  and  made 
smaller  in  appearance  by  the  absence  of  foliage, 
the  closed  chalets,  the  red-roofed  drying-houses 
of  the  laundries,  huddled  together  in  the  melan- 
choly landscape ;  and  on  the  other  side  of  the 
house,  the  railway,  no  longer  masked,  extended 
along  the  colorless  forest  in  an  endless  black  line. 

How  cruel  to  leave  her  all  alone  amid  those 
melancholy  surroundings !  He  felt  his  heart  fail 
him  in  anticipation;  he  should  never  have  the 
courage  to  bid  her  adieu.  That  was  precisely 
what  she  relied  upon,  awaiting  that  supreme  mo- 
ment, and  until  then  maintaining  a  tranquil  de- 
meanor, never  mentioning  the  subject,  true  to  her 
promise  to  place  no  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his 
departure,  which  had  been  foreseen  and  agreed  to 
in  the  beginning.  One  day  he  returned  home 
with  this  news,  — 

*'  I  have  been  appointed." 

*' Ah!  to  what  place?" 

She  asked  the  question  with  feigned  Indiffer- 
ence, but  the  color  faded  from  her  lips  and  the 
light  from  her  eyes,  and  her  features  were  so  con- 
tracted by  pain,  that  he  did  not  prolong  the  tor- 
ture: "No,  no;  not  yet.  I  have  let  Hedouin 
have  my  turn ;  that  gives  us  at  least  six  months." 

Then  there  was  a  flood  of  tears  and  laughter  and 
frantic    kisses,   and    she    stammered:    "Thanks, 


1 80  Sappho. 

thanks  !  How  happy  I  will  make  your  life  now ! 
That  was  what  made  me  spiteful,  you  see,  —  the 
thought  of  your  going  away."  She  proposed  now 
to  prepare  herself  better,  to  resign  herself  gradu- 
ally. And  then,  six  months  hence,  it  would  no 
longer  be  autumn,  with  the  horror  of  those  two 
deaths  in  addition. 

She  kept  her  word.  No  more  nervous  out- 
breaks, no  more  quarrels;  and,  furthermore,  to 
avoid  the  annoyance  of  the  child's  presence,  she 
made  up  her  mind  to  put  him  at  a  boarding-school 
at  Versailles.  He  came  home  only  on  Sunday; 
and  if  the  new  order  of  things  did  not  at  once 
abate  his  wild  and  rebellious  nature,  it  taught 
him  hypocrisy,  at  all  events.  They  lived  in  a 
tranquil  atmosphere,  the  dinners  with  the  Hette- 
mas  passed  off  without  a  tempest,  and  the  piano 
was  opened  once  more  for  the  favorite  melodies. 
But  at  heart  Jean  was  more  disturbed,  more  per- 
plexed than  ever,  asking  himself  where  his  weak- 
ness would  lead  him,  and  thinking  seriously  at 
times  of  abandoning  the  consular  service  for  per- 
manent departmental  work.  That  meant  Paris,  and 
an  indefinite  renewal  of  the  lease  of  his  present 
life ;  but  it  meant  also  the  demolition  of  all  his 
youthful  dreams,  the  despair  of  his  family,  and  an 
inevitable  rupture  with  his  father,  who  would  never 
forgive  that  backsliding,  especially  when  he  knew 
the  reasons. 

And  for  whom  ?  For  a  faded,  prematurely  old 
creature,  whom  he  no  longer  loved  —  he  had 
proved  that  to  his  satisfaction  in  presence  of  her 


Sappho.  i8i 

lovers.     That  being  so,  what  witchcraft  was  there 
in  that  life? 

One  morning  in  the  last  days  of  October,  as  he 
entered  the  train,  a  young  girl's  glance  met  his 
and  suddenly  reminded  him  of  his  encounter  in 
the  woods,  of  the  radiant  charm  of  that  child- 
woman  whose  image  had  haunted  him  for  months. 
She  wore  the  same  light  dress  which  the  sun 
flecked  so  prettily  under  the  trees,  but  over  it  was 
thrown  an  ample  travelling  cloak ;  and  a  package 
of  books,  a  little  bag,  and  a  bunch  of  long  reeds 
and  the  latest  flowers,  that  lay  beside  her  on  the 
seat,  told  the  story  of  the  return  to  Paris,  of  the  end 
of  the  season  in  the  country.  She  had  recognized 
him,  too,  with  a  half  smile  quivering  in  her  eyes, 
as  clear  and  pure  as  spring  water ;  and  for  an  in- 
stant there  was  the  unexpressed  concord  of  identity 
of  thought  between  those  two. 

"How's  your  mother,  Monsieur  d'Armandy?" 
suddenly  inquired  old  Bouchereau,  whom  the  be- 
wildered Jean  had  not  noticed  at  first,  buried  in 
his  corner,  his  pale  face  bending  over  his  news- 
paper. 

Jean  answered  his  question,  deeply  touched  that 
he  should  remember  hirn  and  his ;  and  his  emotion 
was  greatly  increased  when  the  girl  asked  about 
the  two  little  twins,  who  had  written  her  uncle  such 
a  pretty  letter  to  thank  him  for  what  he  had  done 
for  their  mother.  She  knew  of  them  !  that  thought 
filled    him  with  joy;    then,   as   he  was,   it  would 


1 82  Sappho, 

appear,  in  an  unusually  susceptible  mood  that 
morning,  he  instantly  became  depressed  when  he 
learned  that  they  were  returning  to  Paris,  and  that 
Bouchereau  was  about  to  begin  his  lectures  at  the 
Ecole  de  Medecine.  He  would  have  no  further 
opportunities  to  see  her.  And  the  fields  flying 
by  the  windows,  beautiful  but  a  moment  before, 
seemed  dark  and  dismal  to  him  as  if  the  sun  were 
in  eclipse. 

The  locomotive  blew  a  long  whistle;  they  had 
arrived.  He  bowed  and  lost  sight  of  them;  but 
at  the  exit  from  the  station  they  met  again,  and 
Bouchereau  amid  the  uproar  of  the  crowd  informed 
him  that  after  the  following  Thursday  he  should  be 
at  home  on  Place  Vendome  —  if  his  heart  prompted 
him  to  drink  a  cup  of  tea.  She  took  her  uncle's 
arm,  and  it  seemed  to  Jean  that  it  was  she  who 
invited  him,  without  speaking. 

After  having  decided  several  times  that  he  would 
call  upon  Bouchereau,  then  that  he  would  not  — 
for  what  was  the  use  of  subjecting  himself  to  un- 
necessary regrets?  —  he  announced  at  home  that 
there  was  soon  to  be  a  large  evening  party  at  the 
department,  which  it  would  be  necessary  for  him 
to  attend.  Fanny  examined  his  coat,  ironed  his 
white  cravats ;  and  when  Thursday  evening  came  he 
suddenly  discovered  that  he  had  not  the  slightest 
wish  to  go  out.  But  his  mistress  argued  with  him 
as  to  the  necessity  of  the  task,  reproaching  herself 
for  having  monopolized  him  too  much,  for  having 
selfishly  kept  him  to  herself,  and  she  persuaded 
him,  finished  dressing  him  with  affectionate  play- 


Sappho,  183 

fulness,  retouched  the  bow  of  his  cravat  and  his 
hair,  laughed  because  her  fingers  smelt  of  the 
cigarette,  which  she  laid  on  the  mantel  and  took 
up  again  every  minute,  and  it  would  make  his 
partners  turn  up  their  noses.  And  when  he  saw 
her  so  bright  and  good-humored,  he  was  filled 
with  remorse  for  his  lie,  and  would  gladly  have  re- 
mained with  her  by  the  fire  if  she  had  not  insisted, 
"I  want  you  to  go  —  you  must!"  and  lovingly 
pushed  him  out  into  the  dark  road. 

It  was  late  when  he  returned ;  she  was  asleep, 
and  the  lamplight  shining  on  that  sleep  of  fatigue 
reminded  him  of  a  similar  home-coming,  already 
three  years  ago,  after  the  terrible  revelations  that 
had  been  made  to  him.  What  a  coward  he  had 
shown  himself  then  !  By  what  strange  caprice  of 
fate  had  the  very  thing  which  should  have  broken 
his  chain  riveted  it  more  tightly?  He  was  fairly 
nauseated  with  disgust  and  loathing.  The  room, 
the  bed,  the  woman,  all  were  equally  horrible  to 
him;  he  took  the  light  and  softly  carried  it  into 
the  adjoining  room.  He  longed  so  to  be  alone 
that  he  might  reflect  upon  what  had  happened  to 
him  —  oh!  nothing,  almost  nothing  — 

He  was  in  love  I 

There  is  in  certain  words  in  common  use  a  secret 
spring  which  suddenly  lays  open  their  inmost 
depths,  and  explains  them  to  us  in  their  excep- 
tional private  signification ;  then  the  word  shuts 
itself  up  again,  resumes  its  commonplace  form  and 
goes  its  way,  unmeaning,  worn  threadbare  by  auto- 


184  Sappho. 

matic,  every-day  use.  Love  is  one  of  those  words ; 
those  to  whom  its  whole  significance  has  been  once 
made  clear  will  understand  the  delicious  agony  in 
which  Jean  had  been  living  for  an  hour,  with  no 
very  definite  idea  at  first  as  to  what  his  feelings 
meant. 

On  Place  Vendome,  in  the  corner  of  the  salon 
where  they  had  talked  together  for  a  long  while, 
he  was  conscious  of  nothing  save  a  sense  of  perfect 
comfort,  a  sweet  charm  which  encompassed  him. 

Not  until  he  was  outside  the  house  once  more 
and  the  door  closed  behind  him,  was  he  seized  by 
a  wild  outburst  of  joy,  then  by  a  great  wave  of 
faintness  as  if  all  his  veins  were  opened :  — 

''Great  God!  what  is  the  matter  with  me?" 
And  the  Paris  through  whose  streets  he  walked 
toward  his  home  seemed  to  him  entirely  novel, 
fairylike,  magnified,  radiant. 

Yes,  at  that  hour  when  the  beasts  of  night  are 
set  free  and  are  lurking  about,  when  the  filth  from 
the  sewers  comes  to  the  surface,  makes  itself  mani- 
fest and  swarms  under  the  yellow  gas,  the  Paris 
that  he  saw,  he,  Sappho's  lover,  interested  in  all 
forms  of  debauchery,  was  the  Paris  that  the  inno- 
cent maiden  may  see  as  she  returns  from  the  ball 
with  her  head  filled  with  dance  music,  which  she 
hums  to  the  stars  beneath  her  white  dress,  —  that 
chaste  Paris  bathed  in  moonlight  wherein  virgin 
souls  open  to  the  light !  And  suddenly,  as  he 
ascended  the  broad  staircase  at  the  station,  almost 
on  the  threshold  of  his  wretched  home,  he  sur- 
prised himself  saying  aloud  :  ''  Why,  I  love  her ! 


Sappho,  185 

I  love  her !  "  and  that  was  the  way  he  had  learned 
it. 

"  Are  you  there,  Jean  ?  What  on  earth  are  you 
doing?" 

Fanny  awoke  with  a  start,  frightened  because 
she  did  not  feel  him  by  her  side.  He  must  needs 
go  and  kiss  her,  lie  to  her,  describe  the  ball  at  the 
department,  tell  her  whether  there  were  any  pretty 
dresses  there  and  with  whom  he  had  danced ;  but 
to  escape  that  inquisition  and,  above  all,  the  car- 
esses which  he  dreaded,  impregnated  as  he  was 
with  the  memory  of  the  other,  he  invented  some 
urgent  work,  drawings  for  Hettema. 

''The  fire's  out;  you  will  be  cold." 

**No,  no." 

*'  At  least,  leave  the  door  open,  so  that  I  can  see 
your  lamp." 

He  must  act  his  lie  out  to  the  end,  put  the  table 
in  position  and  the  plans ;  then  he  sat  down,  hold- 
ing his  breath,  and  thought,  recalled  all  the  inci- 
dents of  the  evening,  and,  to  fix  his  dream  in  his 
mind,  described  it  to  C^saire  in  a  long  letter,  while 
the  night  wind  stirred  the  branches,  which  creaked 
and  groaned  without  the  rustling  of  leaves,  while 
the  trains  rumbled  by  one  after  another,  and  while 
La  Balue,  annoyed  by  the  light,  moved  about  in 
his  little  cage  and  jumped  from  one  perch  to  the 
other  with  hesitating  cries. 

He  told  him  everything,  the  meeting  in  the 
woods,  in  the  railway  carriage,  his  strange  emo- 


1 86  Sappho. 

tion  on  entering  those  salons  which  had  seemed 
to  them  so  dismal  and  tragic  on  the  ,day  of  the 
consultation,  with  all  the  furtive  whispering  in  the 
doorways  and  the  sorrowful  glances  exchanged 
from  chair  to  chair,  and  which,  on  that  evening, 
were  thrown  open  to  him,  full  of  life  and  anima- 
tion, in  a  long  brilliantly  lighted  line.  Even 
Bouchereau  himself  had  not  that  stern  counte- 
nance, that  black  eye,  searching  and  disconcerting 
under  its  great,  bushy  eyebrow,  but  the  placid, 
paternal  expression  of  a  worthy  bourgeois  who  is 
pleased  to  have  people  enjoy  themselves  in  his 
house. 

"  Suddenly  she  came  toward  me,  and  I  saw 
nothing  more.  Her  name  is  Irene,  my  dear  uncle; 
she  is  very  pretty,  with  an  attractive  manner,  hair 
of  the  golden  brown  common  among  English  girls, 
a  child's  mouth  always  ready  to  laugh  —  but  not 
that  laughter  without  merriment  that  excites  one 
in  so  many  women ;  a  genuine  overflow  of  youth 
and  happiness.  She  was  born  in  London;  but 
her  father  was  French,  and  she  has  no  foreign 
accent  at  all,  only  an  adorable  way  of  pronounc- 
ing certain  words,  of  saying  '  uncle,'  which  brings 
a  caress  to  old  Bouchereau's  eyes  every  time.  He 
took  her  into  his  family  to  relieve  his  brother, 
who  has  numerous  children,  and  to  replace  Irene's 
sister,  the  oldest  child,  who  married  the  chief  of 
his  clinical  staff  two  years  ago.  But  doctors  don't 
suit  her  at  all.  How  she  amused  me  with  the 
idiocy  of  that  young  savant  who  demanded  that 
his  fiancee,  first  of  all,  should  enter  into  a  solemn 


Sappho.  187 

and  formal  agreement  to  bequeath  both  their 
bodies  to  the  Anthropological  Society !  She  is  a 
migratory  bird.  She  is  fond  of  boats  and  the  sea ; 
the  sight  of  a  bowsprit  pointed  seaward  touches 
her  heart.  She  told  me  all  this  freely,  as  to  a 
comrade,  a  true  miss  in  her  manners  despite  her 
Parisian  grace ;  and  I  listened  to  her,  enchanted 
by  her  voice,  her  laughter,  the  similarity  of  our 
tastes,  a  secret  certainty  that  the  happiness  of  my 
life  was  there  at  my  hand,  and  that  I  had  only  to 
grasp  it,  to  carry  it  far  away,  wherever  the  chances 
of  *  the  career '  might  send  me." 

"  Do  come  to  bed,  my  dear." 

He  started,  stopped  writing,  instinctively  hid  the 
unfinished  letter :  **  In  a  few  minutes.  Go  to  sleep  ; 
go  to  sleep." 

He  spoke  angrily,  and,  bending  over  the  table, 
listened  for  the  return  of  sleep  in  her  breathing ; 
for  they  were  very  near  together,  and  so  far  apart ! 

"Whatever  happens,  this  meeting  and  this  love 
will  be  my  salvation.  You  know  what  my  life  is ; 
you  will  have  understood,  without  my  ever  men- 
tioning it,  that  it  is  the  same  as  before,  that  I  have 
not  been  able  to  free  myself.  But  what  you  do  not 
know  is  that  I  was  ready  to  sacrifice  fortune,  future, 
everything,  to  this  fatal  habit,  in  which  I  was  sink- 
ing a  little  deeper  every  day.  Now  I  have  found 
the  mainspring,  the  prop  that  I  lacked ;  and  in 
order  to  give  my  weakness  no  further  opportunity, 
I  have  sworn  never  to  go  to  that  house  again  un- 


1 88  Sappho. 

til  we  have  separated  and  I  am  free.     To-morrow  I 
make  my  escape." 

But  he  did  not  do  it  the  next  day  or  the  day 
after.  He  needed  some  excuse  for  flight,  some 
pretext,  the  climax  of  a  quarrel  in  which  one  ex- 
claims, "  I  am  going  away !  "  to  cover  his  failure 
to  return ;  and  Fanny  was  as  sweet  and  cheerful 
as  in  the  early  illusion-ridden  days  of  their  house- 
keeping. 

Should  he  write,  "  It  is  all  over  between  us," 
without  any  further  explanations  ?  But  that  violent 
creature  would  never  be  resigned  to  that,  she  would 
ferret  him  out,  would  pursue  him  to  the  door  of 
his  house,  of  his  office.  No,  it  would  be  much 
better  to  attack  her  face  to  face,  to  convince  her 
of  the  irrevocableness,  of  the  finality  of  the  rup- 
ture, and  to  enumerate  the  reasons  for  it  without 
anger,  but  without  pity. 

But  with  these  reflections  the  dread  of  a  sui- 
cide like  Alice  Dore's  recurred  to  his  mind.  In 
front  of  their  house,  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
was  a  lane  running  down  to  the  railroad  track  and 
closed  by  a  gate;  the  neighbors  went  that  way 
when  they  were  in  a  hurry,  and  walked  along  the 
track  to  the  station.  And  in  his  mind's  eye,  the 
Southerner  saw  his  mistress,  after  the  final  scene, 
rush  across  the  road,  down  the  lane,  and  throw  her- 
self under  the  wheels  of  the  train  which  whirled 
him  away.  That  dread  beset  him  so,  that  the  bare 
thought  of  that  gate  between  two  ivy-covered  walls 
made  him  postpone  the  explanation. 


Sappho,  189 

If  he  had  only  had  a  friend,  some  one  to  take 
care  of  her,  to  assist  her  in  the  first  paroxysm ;  but 
living  underground  as  they  were,  like  mountain 
rats  in  their  collage,  they  knew  no  one ;  and  the 
Hettemas,  those  abnormal  egoists,  shiny  and  swim- 
ming in  fat,  whose  animalism  became  more  marked 
with  the  approach  of  the  season  for  hibernating, 
like  the  Esquimaux,  were  not  people  upon  whom 
the  poor  creature  could  call  for  help  in  her  despair 
and  her  abandonment. 

He  must  break  with  her,  however,  and  do  it 
quickly.  Despite  his  promise  to  himself,  Jean  had 
been  to  Place  Vendome  two  or  three  times,  and  had 
fallen  deeper  and  deeper  in  love  ;  and  although  the 
subject  had  not  as  yet  been  mentioned,  the  hearty 
welcome  accorded  him  by  old  Bouchereau,  and 
Irene's  attitude,  wherein  reserve  was  blended  with 
affectionate  indulgence  and  what  seemed  to  be  ex- 
cited anticipation  of  a  declaration,  —  everything 
urged  him  to  delay  no  longer.  And  then,  too,  the 
torture  of  lying,  the  pretexts  he  invented  to  satisfy 
Fanny,  and  the  species  of  sacrilege  in  going  from 
Sappho's  kisses  to  lay  his  respectful,  faltering  hom- 
age at  the  other's  feet. 


196  Sapph 


10. 


XI. 


While  he  was  hesitating  between  these  alter- 
natives, he  found  a  card  on  his  table  at  the  depart- 
ment, the  card  of  a  gentleman  who  had  already- 
called  twice  during  the  morning,  said  the  usher, 
with  a  certain  respect  for  the  following  nomen- 
clature :  — 

C.  GAUSSIN  D'ARMANDY, 

President  of  the  Submersionists  of  the  Rhone  Valley, 

Member  of  the  Central  Committee  of  Study  and  Vigilance, 

Departmental  Delegate,  etc.,  etc. 

Uncle  C^saire  in  Paris !  Le  Fenat,  a  delegate, 
member  of  a  vigilance  committee  !  He  had  not 
recovered  from  his  stupor  when  his  uncle  appeared, 
still  as  brown  as  a  pineapple,  with  the  same  won- 
dering eyes,  the  laugh  wrinkling  his  temples,  and 
the  beard  of  the  days  of  the  League ;  but,  instead 
of  the  everlasting  fustian  jacket,  a  new  broadcloth 
frock-coat  buttoned  tightly  over  his  stomach  and 
endowing  the  little  man  with  truly  presidential 
majesty. 

What  brought  him  to  Paris?  The  purchase  of 
an  elevating  machine  for  the  immersion  of  his  new 
vines, — he  uttered  the  word  elevatoire  with  an  air 
of  conviction  which  magnified  him  in  his  ovm  eyes, 
—  and  to  arrange  for  a  bust  of  himself  which  his 


Sappho.  191 

colleagues  desired  as  an  ornament  to  the  directors' 
room. 

"  As  you  have  seen  by  my  card,"  he  said  mod- 
estly, "  they  have  chosen  me  president.  My  idea 
of  submersion  is  making  a  great  sensation  in  the 
South.  And  to  think  that  I,  Le  Fenat,  am  actu- 
ally the  man  to  save  the  vineyards  of  France ! 
Only  the  crazy  fellows  are  good  for  anything,  you 
see." 

But  the  principal  object  of  his  journey  was  the 
rupture  with  Fanny.  Realizing  that  the  affair  was 
dragging,  he  had  come  to  lend  a  hand.  "  I  know 
all  about  such  creatures,  as  you  can  imagine. 
When  Courbebaisse  let  his  go,  in  order  to  get 
married  — "  Before  attacking  his  story,  he 
stopped,  unbuttoned  his  coat  and  produced  a 
Httle  wallet  with  well-rounded  sides. 

"  In  the  first  place,  relieve  me  of  this.  Take  it, 
I  say!  money  —  to  grease  the  wheels."  He  mis- 
understood his  nephew's  gesture  and  thought  that 
he  refused  from  motives  of  delicacy.  "  Take  it ! 
take  it  I  It  makes  me  proud  to  be  able  to  repay 
the  son  for  a  little  of  what  the  father  has  done  for 
me.  Besides,  Divonne  wants  me  to  do  it.  She 
knows  all  about  the  affair,  and  is  so  glad  to  know 
that  you  're  thinking  of  marrying  and  shaking  off 
your  old  crampfish  !  " 

Jean  thought  that  ''  old  crampfish "  was  a  little 
unjust  in  Cesaire's  mouth  after  the  service  his 
mistress  had  done  him,  and  he  replied  with  a 
touch  of  bitterness,  — 

''Take   back    your  wallet,    uncle  ;   you    know 


192  Sappho, 

better  than  any  one  how  indifferent  Fanny  Is  to 
such  considerations." 

"Yes,  she  was  a  good  girl,"  said  the  uncle,  by 
way  of  funeral  oration  ;  and  he  added,  winking  his 
crow's  foot,  — 

"  Keep  the  money  all  the  same.  There  are  so 
many  temptations  in  Paris  that  I  prefer  to  have  it 
in  your  hands  instead  of  mine ;  and  then,  too,  you 
need  it  for  ruptures  just  as  you  do  for  duels." 

With  that  he  rose  from  his  chair,  declaring  that 
he  was  dying  of  hunger  and  that  that  momentous 
question  could  be  discussed  more  satisfactorily  at 
the  breakfast  table,  fork  in  hand.  It  was  the  typi- 
cal airy,  jesting  tone  of  the  Southerner  in  discuss- 
ing questions  relating  to  women. 

"Between  ourselves,  my  boy,"  —  they  were 
seated  in  a  restaurant  on  Rue  de  Bourgogne,  and 
the  uncle,  his  napkin  tucked  in  his  neck,  was  beam- 
ing with  satisfaction,  while  Jean  nibbled  with  the 
ends  of  his  teeth,  unable  to  eat,  —  "  it  seems  to  me 
that  you  take  the  thing  too  tragically.  I  know 
very  well  that  the  first  step  is  hard,  the  explana- 
tion an  infernal  bore ;  but  if  you  feel  that  it 's  too 
much  for  you,  say  nothing  at  all,  —  do  as  Courbe- 
baisse  did.  Up  to  the  very  morning  of  the  wed- 
ding. La  Mornas  knew  nothing  about  it.  At  night, 
on  leaving  his  intended,  he  would  go  to  the  place 
where  the  singer  was  squalling  and  escort  her 
home.  You  will  say  that  that  was  n't  very  regu- 
lar, nor  very  honest  either.  But  when  one  is  n't 
fond  of  scenes,  and  with  such  terrible  creatures  as 


Sappho.  193 

Paola  Mornas !  For  nearly  ten  years  that  tall, 
handsome  fellow  had  trembled  before  that  little 
hussy.  When  it  came  to  cutting  loose,  he  had  to 
manoeuvre,  to  resort  to  stratagem."  And  this  is 
how  he  went  about  it. 

On  the  day  before  the  wedding,  one  Fifteenth  of 
August,  the  day  of  the  great  festival,  Cesaire  pro- 
posed to  the  young  woman  that  they  should  go 
and  fish  in  the  Yvette.  Courbebaisse  was  to  join 
them  for  dinner;  and  then  they  would  all  three 
return  together  on  the  following  evening,  when 
Paris  would  have  evaporated  its  odor  of  dust,  of 
exploded  fire-crackers  and  oil-lamps.  She  as- 
sented. Behold  them  both  lying  at  full  length 
on  the  bank  of  that  little  stream,  which  purls  and 
gleams  between  its  low  shores,  and  makes  the 
fields  so  green  and  the  willows  so  leafy.  After 
the  fishing,  the  bath.  It  was  not  the  first  time 
that  he  and  Paola  had  swum  together,  like  two 
boys,  like  comrades;  but  on  that  day  that  little 
Mornas,  with  her  bare  arms  and  legs,  her  perfectly 
moulded  gypsy-like  body,  to  which  the  wet  cos- 
tume clung  closely  everywhere  —  perhaps,  too,  the 
thought  that  Courbebaisse  had  given  him  carte 
blanche.  Ah !  the  little  wretch !  She  turned, 
looked  him  in  the  eyes,  and  said  sternly, — 

"  You  understand,  Cesaire  ;  don't  try  that  again." 

He  did  not  insist,  for  fear  of  spoiling  his  chances, 
but  said  to  himself,  "  I  will  wait  till  after  dinner." 

Very  merry  the  dinner  was,  on  the  wooden  bal- 
cony of  the  inn,  between  the  two  flags  which  the 
landlord  had  hoisted  in  honor  of  the  Fifteenth  of 

13 


1 94  Sappho, 

August.  It  was  very  warm,  the  sweet  bay  was  very 
fragrant,  and  they  could  hear  the  drums  and  fire- 
works and  the  music  of  the  hurdy-gurdy  trundhng 
through  the  streets. 

''  How  stupid  it  is  of  that  Courbebaisse  not  to 
come  till  to-morrow,"  said  La  Mornas,  stretching 
out  her  arms,  with  a  gleam  of  champagne  in  her 
eyes.     *'  I  feel  like  having  some  fun  to-night." 

''  Gad  !   and  so  do  I !  " 

He  was  leaning  by  her  side  on  the  balcony  rail, 
which  was  still  burning  hot  from  the  scorching  rays 
of  the  sun,  and  slyly,  as  an  experiment,  slipped  his 
arm  around  her  waist,  "  Oh,  Paola !  Paola !"  That 
time,  instead  of  being  angry,  the  singer  began  to 
laugh,  but  so  loud  and  heartily  that  he  ended  by 
doing  the  same.  A  similar  attempt  was  repulsed  in 
the  same  way  in  the  evening,  when  they  returned 
from  the  fete,  where  they  had  danced  and  eaten 
sweets ;  and  as  their  bedrooms  adjoined,  she  sang 
to  him  through  the  partition :  "  You  are  too 
small,  oh !  you  are  too  small,"  —  with  all  sorts  of 
uncomplimentary  comparisons  between  Courbe- 
baisse and  himself  He  was  strongly  tempted  to 
retort,  to  call  her  the  widow  Mornas;  but  it  was 
too  soon.  The  next  day,  however,  as  they  sat 
before  a  bountiful  breakfast,  and  when  Paola  had 
become  impatient  and  finally  anxious  at  her  man's 
failure  to  appear,  it  was  with  considerable  satis- 
faction that  he  drew  his  watch  and  said  solemnly : 

''  Noon  !   it  is  all  over." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

**  He  is  married." 


Sappho.  195 

''Who?" 

"  Courbebalsse." 

Vlan! 

'*  Ah  !  my  boy,  what  a  blow !  In  all  my  love- 
making  I  never  received  such  a  one.  And  on  the 
instant  she  insisted  on  starting  off.  But  there  was 
no  train  till  four  o'clock.  And  meanwhile  the  un- 
faithful one  was  scorching  the  rails  of  the  P.,  L., 
and  M.  on  his  way  to  Italy  with  his  wife.  There- 
upon she  turned  on  me  again  and  took  it  out  of 
me  with  her  fists  and  her  claws,  —  such  luck !  — 
when  I  had  turned  the  key  in  the  door;  then 
she  went  for  the  furniture,  and  finally  fell  on  the 
floor  in  a  terrible  attack  of  hysteria.  At  five  they 
put  her  on  her  bed  and  held  her  there ;  while  I,  all 
torn  and  bleeding  as  if  I  had  just  been  through  a 
thicket  of  brambles,  hurried  off  to  find  Doctor 
d'Orsay.  In  such  affairs  it 's  just  the  same  as  it  is 
in  duelling,  you  should  always  have  a,  doctor  in 
attendance.  Fancy  me  rushing  along  the  road 
with  an  empty  stomach,  and  in  such  a  hot  sun ! 
It  was  dark  when  I  returned  with  him.  Suddenly, 
as  I  approached  the  inn,  I  heard  the  sound  of 
voices  and  saw  a  crowd  under  the  windows.  Great 
God  ?  had  she  killed  herself?  had  she  killed  some 
one  else?  With  La  Mornas  the  latter  was  more 
probable.  I  rushed  forward,  and  what  did  I  see? 
The  balcony  strung  with  Venetian  lanterns,  and 
the  singer  standing  there,  consoled  and  superb, 
wrapped  in  one  of  the  flags  and  shrieking  the 
Marseillaise  as  a  contribution  to  the  imperial  holi- 
day, above  the  applauding  multitude. 


196  Sappho, 

"  And  that,  my  boy,  is  how  Courbebaisse's  liaison 
came  to  an  end  ;  I  won't  say  that  it  was  all  ended  at 
one  stroke.  After  ten  years  of  imprisonment,  one 
must  always  expect  a  brief  period  of  surveillance. 
But  the  worst  of  it  fell  on  me,  at  all  events ;  and  I 
will  stand  as  much  from  yours,  if  you  choose." 

*'  Ah !  uncle,  she 's  not  the  same  kind  of  a 
woman." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Cesaire,  breaking  the  seal  of 
a  box  of  cigars  and  holding  them  to  his  ear  to 
make  sure  that  they  were  dry;  ''you're  not  the 
first  man  who  has  left  her." 

"  That  is  true  enough." 

And  Jean  joyfully  grasped  at  that  suggestion, 
which  would  have  torn  his  heart  a  few  months 
before.  His  uncle  and  his  amusing  story  really 
encouraged  him  a  little,  but  what  he  could  not 
endure  was  the  living  a  twofold  lie  for  months, 
the  hypocrisy,  the  division  of  his  time ;  he  could 
never  make  up  his  mind  to  that,  ariH  had  waited 
only  too  long. 

''What  do  you  mean  to  do,  then?" 

While  the  young  man  was  struggling  with  his 
perplexities,  the  member  of  the  vigilance  commit- 
tee combed  his  beard,  experimented  with  smiles, 
attitudes,  different  ways  of  carrying  the  head,  then 
inquired  with  a  careless  air,  — 

"  Does  he  live  very  far  from  here?" 

"Who,  pray?" 

"  Why,  this  artist,  this  Caoudal,  whom  you  sug- 
gested to  me  for  my  bust.  We  might  go  and  in- 
quire his  prices  while  we  are  together." 


Sappho.  197 

Caoudal,  although  he  had  become  famous,  was 
a  great  spendthrift  and  still  lived  on  Rue  d'Assas, 
the  scene  of  his  early  successes.  C^saire,  as  they 
walked  thither,  inquired  concerning  his  rank  as  an 
artist ;  he  would  ask  a  big  price,  of  course,  but  the 
gentlemen  of  the  committee  insisted  upon  a  work 
of  the  first  order. 

"  Oh !  you  need  have  no  fear,  uncle,  if  Caoudal 
is  willing  to  undertake  it."  And  he  enumerated 
the  sculptor's  titles,  —  Member  of  the  Institute, 
Commander  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  a  multi- 
tude of  foreign  orders.  Le  Fenat  opened  his  eyes 
in  amazement. 

"  And  you  are  friends?" 

"Very  good  friends." 

"What  a  place  this  Paris  is?  What  fine  ac- 
quaintances one  makes  here  !  " 

Gaussin  would  have  been  somewhat  ashamed  to 
confess  that  Caoudal  was  one  of  Fanny's  old  lovers, 
and  that  she  had  brought  them  together.  But  one 
would  have  said  that  Cesaire  was  thinking  of  it. 

"  Is  he  the  one  who  did  that  Sappho  we  have  at 
Castelet?  Then  he  knows  your  mistress  and  can 
help  you,  perhaps,  to  break  with  her.  The  Insti- 
tute, the  Legion  of  Honor,  —  those  things  always 
make  an  impression  on  a  woman." 

Jean  did  not  reply ;  perhaps  he  too  thought  that 
he  might  make  use  of  the  first  lover's  influence. 

The  uncle  continued  with  a  hearty  laugh :  — 

"  By  the  way,  you  know  the  bronze  is  no  longer 
in  your  father's  room.  When  Divonne  learned, 
when  I  was  unlucky  enough  to  have  to  tell  her 


1 98  Sappho. 

that  it  represented  your  mistress,  she  wouldn't 
have  it  there.  Considering  the  consul's  whims, 
his  objections  to  the  slightest  change,  it  was  n't  an 
easy  matter  to  move  it,  especially  without  letting 
him  suspect  the  reason.  Oh,  these  women  !  She 
managed  so  cleverly  that  to-day  Monsieur  Thiers 
presides  over  your  father's  mantel,  and  poor 
Sappho  lies  in  the  dust  in  the  windy  chamber, 
with  the  old  firedogs  and  cast-off  furniture;  she 
suffered  too  in  the  moving,  —  her  head-dress  was 
smashed  and  her  lyre  broken  off.  Doubtless 
Divonne's  spite  was  the  cause  of  her  misfortune." 

They  reached  Rue  d'Assas.  In  view  of  the 
modest,  hard-working  aspect  of  that  city  of  artists, 
of  studios  with  numbered  barn-Hke  doors,  opening 
on  both  sides  of  a  long  courtyard  at  the  end  of 
which  were  the  ugly  buildings  of  a  district  school 
with  a  perpetual  murmur  of  reading,  the  president 
of  the  Submersionists  conceived  fresh  doubts  as  to 
the  talent  of  a  man  so  modestly  quartered ;  but 
as  soon  as  he  entered  Caoudal's  studio,  he  knew 
what  to  expect. 

*'  Not  for  a  hundred  thousand  francs,  not  for  a 
million ! "  roared  the  sculptor  at  Gaussin's  first 
word ;  and  slowly  raising  his  long  body  from  the 
couch  on  which  he  lay  in  the  centre  of  the  dis- 
orderly, neglected  studio,  he  added:  *'A  bust! 
Oh,  yes !  just  look  at  that  mass  of  plaster  in  a 
thousand  pieces  on  the  floor,  —  my  group  for  the 
next  Salon,  which  I  have  just  pulverized  with  a 
mallet.  That's  all  I  care  for  sculpture,  and  tempt- 
ing as  monsieur's  lineaments  are  —  " 


Sappho,  199 

**  Gaussin  d'Armandy,  president  —  " 

The  uncle  collected  all  his  titles,  but  there  were 
too  many  of  them ;  Caoudal  interrupted  him  and 
turned  to  the  younger  man,  — 

*'  You  are  staring  at  me,  Gaussin.  Do  you  think 
I  have  grown  old  ?  " 

It  was  quite  true  that  he  looked  his  full  age  in 
that  light  from  above  falling  upon  the  scars,  the 
furrows  and  wrinkles  of  his  dissipated,  fatigued 
face,  his  Hon's  mane  showing  bald  spots  like  old 
carpet,  his  cheeks  hanging  and  flabby,  and  his 
moustache  of  the  color  of  tarnished  gilt,  which  he 
no  longer  took  the  trouble  to  curl  or  dye.  What 
was  the  use?  Cousinard,  the  little  model,  had  gone. 
"  Yes,  my  dear  fellow,  with  my  moulder,  a  savage, 
a  brute,  but  twenty  years  old  !  " 

His  tone  was  fierce  and  ironical,  and  he  strode 
up  and  down  the  studio,  kicking  aside  a  stool  that 
stood  in  his  path.  Suddenly,  halting  in  front  of 
the  mirror  with  a  carved  copper  frame  over  the 
couch,  he  looked  at  himself  with  a  ghastly  grim- 
ace :  "  What  an  ugly,  played-out  thing  !  veins  and 
dewlaps  like  an  old  cow  !  "  He  put  his  hand  to  his 
face,  and  in  a  piteous,  comical  tone,  with  the  fore- 
sight of  an  old  beau  bewailing  his  charms :  "  To 
think  that  I  shall  regret  even  this,  next  year !  " 

The  uncle  was  horrified.  The  idea  of  that  acad- 
emician talking  in  that  tone  and  telling  about  his 
vile  love-affairs  !  So  there  were  crackbrains  every- 
where, even  in  the  Institute ;  and  his  admiration 
for  the  great  man  lessened  with  the  sympathy  he 
felt  for  his  weaknesses. 


200  Sappho. 

**  How's  Fanny?  Are  you  still  at  Chaville?** 
said  Caoudal,  suddenly  subsiding  and  sitting  down 
beside  Gaussin,  and  tapping  him  familiarly  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  Oh,  poor  Fanny  !  we  have  n't  much  longer  to 
live  together." 

"Are  you  going  away?" 

"  Yes,  very  soon ;  and  I  am  going  to  be  married 
first.     I  have  got  to  leave  her." 

The  sculptor  laughed  a  savage  laugh. 

"  Bravo  !  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it.  Avenge  us, 
my  boy;  avenge  us  on  those  trollops.  Deceive 
them,  throw  them  over,  and  let  them  weep,  the 
wretches  !  You  will  never  do  them  as  much  harm 
as  they  have  done  to  others." 

Uncle  Cesaire  was  triumphant. 

"  You  see,  monsieur  does  n't  take  such  a  tragic 
view  of  the  afifair  as  you  do.  Can  you  imagine 
such  a  zany?  What  keeps  him  from  leaving  her 
is  the  fear  that  she  will  kill  herself!  " 

Jean  frankly  avowed  the  effect  that  Alice  Dore's 
suicide  had  made  upon  him. 

"  But  this  is  a  different  matter,"  said  Caoudal, 
earnestly.  "That  girl  was  a  melancholy,  soft 
creature,  with  hands  always  falling  at  her  sides,  — 
a  poor  doll  without  any  sawdust.  Dechelette  was 
wrong  in  thinking  that  she  died  for  him.  A  sui- 
cide from  fatigue  and  disgust  with  life.  While 
Sappho  —  ah!  yes,  she'll  kill  herself!  She's 
too  fond  of  love  for  that ;  she  '11  burn  to  the  end, 
down  to  the  bobhhes.  She 's  of  the  race  of 
jeunes  preinierSy  who   never    change  their  line   of 


Sappho,  201 

parts  and  die,  toothless  and  without  eyelashes,  in 
their  jeune  premier  costumes.  Just  look  at  me. 
Do  I  kill  myself?  It's  of  no  use  for  me  to  grieve. 
I  know  perfectly  well  that  now  she  has  gone  I  shall 
take  another,  that  I  must  always  have  one.  Your 
mistress  will  do  as  I  do,  as  she  has  done  before. 
Only  she  is  no  longer  young,  and  it  will  be  a 
harder  task." 

Still  the  uncle  was  triumphant :  **  You  feel  bet- 
ter now,  eh  ?  " 

Jean  said  nothing,  but  his  scruples  were  over- 
come and  his  mind  made  up.  They  were  going 
away,  when  the  sculptor  called  them  back  to  show 
them  a  photograph  which  he  took  from  the  dust 
on  his  table  and  wiped  with  his  sleeve.  "  See, 
there  she  is.  Is  n't  she  a  pretty  one,  the  hussy, 
to  kneel  before  ?  Those  legs,  that  breast !  "  The 
contrast  was  terrible  between  those  glowing  eyes, 
that  passionate  voice,  and  the  senile  trembling  of 
the  great,  spatula-shaped  fingers  in  which  quivered 
the  smiling  image  of  Cousinard,  the  little  model, 
with  her  dimpled  charms. 


202  Sappho. 


XII. 


**  Is  it  you  ?     How  early  you  have  come  home  !  " 

She  came  in  from  the  garden,  her  skirt  full  of 
fallen  apples,  and  ran  quickly  up  the  steps,  dis- 
turbed by  her  lover's  manner,  which  was  at  once 
embarrassed  and  determined. 

''What's  the  matter?" 

"■  Nothing,  nothing ;  it 's  this  weather,  this 
bright  sunshine.  I  wanted  to  make  the  most  of 
the  last  fine  day  to  take  a  turn  in  the  forest,  we 
two.     What  do  you  say?  " 

She  gave  her  street  urchin's  cry,  which  came  to 
her  lips  whenever  she  was  pleased. 

''  Oh,  what  luck !  "  For  more  than  a  month 
they  had  not  been  out,  housed  by  the  rains  and 
winds  of  November.  It  was  not  always  entertain- 
ing in  the  country ;  one  might  as  well  live  in  the 
Ark  with  Noah  and  his  beasts.  She  had  a  few 
orders  to  give  in  the  kitchen,  because  of  the  Het- 
temas,  who  were  coming  to  dinner;  and  while  he 
waited  outside  on  the  Pave  des  Gardes,  Jean  gazed 
at  the  little  house,  warmed  by  that  mild  Indian 
summer  light,  and  at  the  broad  moss-covered 
pavement  of  the  country  street,  with  that  farewell, 
all-embracing  and  endowed  with  memory,  which 
we  say  with  our  eyes  to  places  we  are  about  to 
leave. 


Sappho,  203 

The  window  of  the  living-room  was  wide  open, 
so  that  he  could  hear  the  warbling  of  the  thrush 
alternating  with  Fanny's  orders  to  the  servant: 
"  Be  sure  and  remember  to  have  it  ready  at  half- 
past  six.  First  you  will  serve  the  wild  duck.  Oh  ! 
I  must  give  you  the  table  linen."  Her  voice  rang 
out  clear  and  happy  among  the  noises  of  the 
kitchen  and  the  twittering  of  the  bird  pluming 
himself  in  the  sun.  And  he,  knowing  that  their 
household  had  only  two  hours  more  to  live,  felt 
sick  at  heart  in  presence  of  those  festal  prepa- 
rations. 

He  longed  to  go  in,  to  tell  her  everything,  on 
the  spot,  at  one  stroke  ;  but  he  dreaded  her  shrieks, 
the  horrible  scene  which  the  neighbors  would  over- 
hear, and  a  scandal  that  would  stir  Upper  and 
Lower  Chaville  to  their  depths.  He  knew  that 
when  she  had  thrown  off  all  restraint,  nothing  had 
any  effect  upon  her,  and  he  adhered  to  his  plan  of 
taking  her  into  the  forest. 

"  Here  I  am,  all  ready." 

She  joyously  took  his  arm,  warning  him  to  speak 
low  and  walk  fast  as  they  passed  their  neighbors' 
house,  fearing  that  Olympe  would  want  to  accom- 
pany them  and  spoil  their  little  party.  Her  mind 
was  not  at  rest  until  they  had  crossed  the  track 
and  turned  to  the  left  into  the  woods. 

It  was  a  bright,  mild  day,  the  sun's  rays  sifting 
through  a  silvery,  floating  mist  which  bathed  the 
whole  atmosphere,  clung  to  the  thickets,  where 
some  trees  still  displayed  magpies'  nests  and  tufts 
of  mistletoe,  at  a  great  height  among  the  few  golden 


204  Sappho. 

leaves  clinging  to  the  branches.  They  heard  the 
cry  of  a  bird,  maintained  without  a  break,  like  the 
noise  made  by  a  file,  and  those  blows  of  the  beak 
on  the  wood  which   answer  the  woodcutter's  axe. 

They  walked  slowly,  keeping  step  on  the  rain- 
soaked  ground.  She  was  warm  from  having 
walked  so  fast ;  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  eyes 
sparkled,  and  she  stopped  to  take  off  the  lace 
mantle,  a  gift  from  Rosa,  which  she  had  thrown 
over  her  head  as  she  came  out,  —  a  fragile  and 
costly  relic  of  bygone  splendors.  The  dress  she 
wore,  a  poor  black  silk,  ripped  under  the  arms  and 
at  the  waist,  had  been  familiar  to  him  for  three 
years ;  and  when  she  raised  it,  walking  in  front  of 
him  because  of  a  puddle,  he  saw  that  the  heels  of 
her  boots  were  badly  worn. 

How  cheerfully  she  had  endured  that  semi- 
poverty,  without  regret  or  lamentation,  thinking 
solely  of  him,  of  his  comfort,  never  happier  than 
when  she  was  rubbing  against  him,  her  hands 
clasped  on  his  arm.  And  Jean,  as  he  glanced  at 
her,  rejuvenated  by  that  new  supply  of  sunshine 
and  of  love,  marvelled  at  the  never-faihng  energy 
of  such  a  creature,  at  the  wonderful  power  of  for- 
getting and  forgiving  which  enabled  her  to  re- 
tain such  a  store  of  cheerful  spirits  and  heedless 
gayety,  after  a  life  of  passions,  of  disappointments 
and  tears,  all  marked  upon  her  face,  but  vanishing 
at  the  slightest  effusion  of  merriment. 

"  It 's  a  mushroom ;  I  tell  you  it 's  a  mushroom  !  '* 

She  plunged  into  the  underbrush  up  to  her  knees 
in    the    dead    leaves,    returned    with    dishevelled 


Sappho,  205 

hair  and  her  dress  torn  by  the  brambles,  and 
pointed  out  the  little  network  at  the  foot  of  the 
mushroom  which  distinguishes  the  genuine  from 
the  false  variety.  "You  see,  it  has  the  tulle!'' 
And  she  was  triumphant. 

He  did  not  listen  ;  he  was  thinking  of  other  things, 
asking  himself:  "  Is  this  the  best  time?  Shall  I?  " 
But  his  courage  failed  him ;  she  was  laughing  too 
heartily,  or  the  place  was  not  favorable ;  and  he  led 
her  on  and  on  like  an  assassin  planning  his  crime. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  making  up  his  mind, 
when,  at  a  bend  in  a  path,  some  one  appeared  and 
disturbed  their  tete-a-tete^  —  the  keeper  of  that 
district,  Hochecorne,  whom  they  sometimes  met. 
A  poor  devil,  who  had  lost,  one  after  another,  in 
the  little  house  in  the  woods  on  the  edge  of  the 
pond,  which  the  state  allotted  him,  two  children 
and  his  wife,  all  by  malignant  fevers.  At  the  time 
of  the  first  death  the  doctors  declared  the  house 
unhealthy,  as  being  too  near  the  water  and  its 
emanations;  but,  despite  the  certificates  and  re- 
ports, they  had  left  him  there  two  years,  three 
years,  long  enough  to  see  his  whole  family  die  with 
the  exception  of  one  little  girl,  with  whom  he  had 
finally  moved  into  a  new  house  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  woods. 

Hochecorne  had  a  square  Breton  face,  with  bright, 
brave  eyes,  a  forehead  receding  beneath  his  forage 
cap,  —  a  typical  specimen  of  fidelity  to  duty,  of 
superstitious  obedience  to  all  orders ;  he  had  his 
rifle  barrel  over  one  shoulder  and  on  the  other  the 
head  of  his  sleeping  child,  whom  he  was  carrying. 


2o6  Sappho. 

"  How  is  she  ?  "  Fanny  inquired,  smiling  at  the 
little  four-year-old  girl,  pale  and  shrunken  with 
fever,  who  awoke  and  opened  her  great  eyes  sur- 
rounded by  pink  circles.     The  keeper  sighed. 

''  Not  very  well.  I  take  her  everywhere  with  me, 
but  it's  no  use:  she  doesn't  eat  anything,  she 
doesn't  want  anything;  I  can't  help  thinking  it 
was  too  late  when  we  changed  the  air,  and  that  she 
had  already  caught  the  disease.  She 's  so  light 
—  just  see,  madame,  you'd  think  she  was  a  leaf. 
One  of  these  days  she  '11  run  away  like  the  others  ! 
Good  God ! " 

That  ''  good  God ! "  muttered  in  his  mustache, 
was  the  whole  of  his  revolt  against  the  cruelty  of 
departments  and  clerks. 

''  She  is  trembling ;  she  seems  to  be  cold." 

*'  It 's  the  fever,  madame." 

"Wait  a  moment;  we  will  warm  her."  She 
took  the  mantle  that  was  hanging  on  her  arm  and 
wrapped  the  little  one  in  it:  *'  Yes,  yes,  let  it  stay; 
it  shall  be  her  bridal  veil  later." 

The  father  smiled  a  heartbroken  smile,  and  shak- 
ing the  child's  hand,  —  she  had  fallen  asleep  again 
and  was  ashen-hued  like  a  little  dead  girl,-  in  all 
that  white,  —  he  bade  her  thank  the  lady,  then 
went  his  way  with  a  **  good  God  !  "  drowned  by 
the  cracking  of  the  branches  under  his  feet. 

Fanny  was  no  longer  merry,  but  clung  closely 
to  him  with  all  the  timorous  fondness  of  the 
woman  whom  her  emotion,  be  it  sad  or  joyous, 
draws  nearer  to  the  man  she  loves.  Jean  said  to 
himself,  *'  What  a  kind-hearted  girl !  "  but  with- 


Sappho.  207 

out  weakening  in  his  resolve,  on  the  contrary  be- 
coming more  determined  to  put  it  in  execution ; 
for  Irene's  face  rose  before  him  on  the  sloping 
path  on  which  they  were  entering,  the  memory  of 
the  radiant  smile  he  had  met  in  that  path,  which 
had  taken  his  heart  captive  at  once,  even  before 
he  knew  its  enduring  charm,  the  secret  spring  of 
intelligence  and  sweetness  of  character.  He  re- 
flected that  he  had  waited  until  the  last  moment, 
that  it  was  Thursday.  **  Come,  I  must  do  it ;  " 
and,  spying  a  cross-road  a  short  distance  away, 
he  mentally  fixed  upon  that  as  the  limit. 

It  was  a  clearing  where  the  wood  had  recently 
been  cut  away,  trees  lying  prostrate  amid  chips, 
fragments  of  bark,  twigs,  and  charcoal  kilns.  A 
little  farther  on  was  the  pond,  from  which  a  white 
vapor  arose,  and  on  the  shore  the  little  abandoned 
house,  with  its  dilapidated  roof,  windows  open  and 
broken,  the  lazaretto  of  the  Hochecornes.  Be- 
yond, the  woods  ascended  toward  Velizy,  a  vast 
hillside  of  ruddy  foliage,  of  lofty  trees,  crowded 
closely  together  and  melancholy  to  look  upon. 
Suddenly   he  stopped. 

**  Suppose  we  rest  a  moment?  " 

They  sat  down  on  a  long  trunk-  lately  felled,  an 
old  oak  whose  branches  could  be  counted  by  the 
wounds  of  the  axe.  It  was  a  warm  corner,  en- 
livened by  a  pallid  reflection  of  the  sun's  rays, 
and  by  a  perfume  of  belated  violets. 

**  How  nice  it  is  here !  "  she  said,  letting  her 
head  fall  languidly  on  his  shoulder  and  seeking 
the  place  for  a  kiss  in  his  neck.     He  drew  back  a 


2o8  Sappho. 

little,  took  her  hand.  Thereupon  she  took  alarm 
at  the  expression  of  his  face,  which  had  suddenly 
grown  stern. 

''  What 's  the  matter?     What  is  it?  " 

**  Bad  news,  my  poor  girl.  You  know  Hddouin, 
who  went  away  in  my  place."  He  spoke  hesi- 
tatingly, in  a  hoarse  voice,  the  sound  of  which 
astonished  himself,  but  which  gained  in  firmness 
toward  the  end  of  the  story  he  had  prepared  be- 
forehand. Hedouin  had  fallen  sick  on  arriving  at 
his  post,  and  he  was  appointed  by  the  department 
to  replace  him.  He  had  concluded  that  that  would 
be  easier  to  say,  less  painful  than  the  truth.  She 
listened  to  him  to  the  end,  without  interrupting 
him,  her  face  of  a  grayish  pallor,  her  eyes  staring 
into  vacancy.  "  W^hen  are  you  going?"  she 
asked,  withdrawing  her  hand. 

"  Why,  this  evening,  to-night."  And  in  a  false, 
whining  voice  he  added,  *'  I  intend  to  pass  twenty- 
four  hours  at  Castelet,  then  sail  from  Marseille." 

"  Enough,  don't  lie  to  me !  "  she  cried  with  a 
savage  explosion  which  brought  her  to  her  feet. 
"  Don't  lie  to  me  any  more ;  you  don't  know  what 
you  're  doing.  The  truth  is  that  you  're  going  to 
be  married.  Your  family  's  been  working  on  you 
long  enough.  They're  so  afraid  that  I'll  keep 
you,  that  I  '11  prevent  you  from  going  in  search  of 
the  typhus  or  the  yellow  fever  !  At  last  they  're 
satisfied.  The  young  lady's  to  your  taste,  of 
course.  And  when  I  think  how  I  fussed  over  the 
knot  in  your  cravat  that  Thursday!  What  an 
idiot  I  was,  eh?" 


Sappho,  209 

She  laughed  a  ghastly,  atrocious  laugh,  which 
distorted  her  features  and  showed  the  gap  made 
on  one  side  by  the  breaking  —  of  recent  occurrence, 
doubtless,  for  he  had  never  before  noticed  it  —  of 
one  of  her  lovely,  pearly  teeth  of  which  she  was  so 
proud ;  and  the  absence  of  that  tooth  in  that  clay- 
colored,  wrinkled,  distorted  face  caused  Gaussin  a 
horrible  pang. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  said,  taking  her  arm  and 
forcing  her  to  sit  close  beside  him.  '*  It  is  true ;  I 
am  going  to  be  married.  My  father  was  set  upon 
it,  as  you  know  so  well ;  but  what  difference  can 
that  make  to  you,  since  I  am  to  leave  France  ?  " 

She  released  herself,  preferring  to  keep  her 
temper  at  the  boiling  point. 

"  And  it  was  to  tell  me  this  that  you  made  me 
walk  a  league  through  the  woods !  You  said  to 
yourself:  'At  all  events,  they  won't  hear  her  if 
she  cries,'  But  no :  not  an  outcry,  you  see,  not 
a  tear.  In  the  first  place,  I  've  had  my  fill  of  a 
pretty  boy  like  you ;  you  can  go,  I  sha'n't  be  the 
one  to  call  you  back.  Run  away  to  the  Indies 
with  your  wife,  your  little  one,  as  they  say  where 
you  come  from.  She  must  be  a  sweet  creature, 
the  little  one,  ugly  as  a  gorilla,  or  else  enceijite 
with  a  big  waist,  for  you  're  as  big  a  gull  as  those 
who  chose  her  for  you." 

She  no  longer  restrained  herself,  launching  out 
upon  a  sea  of  insults  and  abominations,  until  she 
was  able  to  do  no  more  than  falter  in  his  face, 
tauntingly,  as  one  shakes  one's  fist,  "  Coward  !  liar  ! 
coward !  " 

14 


2i6  Sappho, 

It  was  Jean's  turn  to  listen  to  her  without  a 
word,  without  attempting  to  stop  her.  He  liked 
her  better  so,  insulting,  degraded,  Pere  Legrand's 
own  daughter ;  the  separation  would  be  less  cruel. 
Did  she  realize  it?  At  all  events,  she  suddenly 
ceased,  fell  at  her  lover's  feet,  her  head  and  breast 
foremost,  with  a  great  sob  which  shook  her  whole 
frame,  and  from  which  emerged  a  broken  wail: 
"  Forgive  me  !  mercy  !  I  love  you ;  I  have  no- 
body but  you.  My  love,  my  life,  do  not  do  this 
thing ;  do  not  leave  me !  What  do  you  suppose 
will  become  of  me?" 

He  began  to  yield  to  her  emotion.  Oh !  that 
was  what  he  had  dreaded.  The  tears  rose  from 
her  to  him,  and  he  threw  back  his  head  to  keep 
them  in  his  overflowing  eyes,  trying  to  calm  her 
by  stupid  words,  and  by  insisting  upon  that  sen- 
sible argument,  *'  Why,  as  long  as  I  must  leave 
France,  anyway." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  crying  in  words  which 
disclosed  her  whole  hope,  — 

**  Ah  !  but  you  would  not  have  gone.  I  would 
have  said  to  you,  'Wait;  let  me  love  you  still.' 
Do  you  suppose  that  it  happens  twice  to  a  man 
to  be  loved  as  I  love  you  ?  You  have  time  enough 
to  marry,  you  are  so  young ;  but  it  will  be  all  up 
with  me  before  long.  I  shall  be  at  the  end  of  my 
strength,  and  then  we  shall  part  naturally." 

He  tried  to  rise;  he  had  courage  enough  for 
that,  and  to  say  to  her  that  all  that  she  could  do 
would  be  of  no  avail;  but  by  clinging  to  him, 
dragging  herself  on  her  knees  through  the  mud 


Sappho,  211 

that  still  remained  in  that  hollow  spot,  she  forced 
him  to  resume  his  seat;  and  kneeling  before  him, 
twining  her  arms  around  him,  with  her  lips  and 
the  clinging  embrace  of  her  eyes,  her  childlike 
caresses,  patting  that  stern  face  with  her  hands, 
twining  her  fingers  in  his  hair,  she  tried  to  kindle 
anew  the  cold  embers  of  his  love,  she  reminded 
him  in  whispers  of  their  past  happiness,  of  their 
joyous  Sunday  afternoons.  All  that  was  nothing 
compared  to  the  happiness  she  would  give  him 
hereafter. 

And  while  she  whispered  in  his  ear  words  like 
these,  great  tears  rolled  down  her  face,  distorted 
as  it  was  by  an  expression  of  anguish  and  terror, 
and  she  struggled  and  shrieked  in  the  voice  that 
one  hears  in  dreams :  "■  Oh,  it  cannot  be  !  tell 
me  that  it  is  n't  true  that  you  are  going  to  leave 
me !  "  And  more  sobs  and  groans  and  calls  for 
help,  as  if  she  saw  a  knife  in  his  hand. 

The  executioner  was  hardly  more  courageous 
than  the  victim.  He  feared  her  wrath  no  more 
than  her  caresses,  but  he  was  defenceless  against 
that  despair,  that  bf^''*-  -Wrh  filled  the  woods 
and  died  away  over  the  fever-laden,  .•^'^o-nant  water 
whereon  the  sun  lay,  red  and  melancholy .  '^ 
expected  to  suffer,  but  not  so  intensely  as  that; 
and  it  required  all  the  dazzling  splendor  of  the  new 
love  to  enable  him  to  resist  the  impulse  to  lift  her 
with  both  hands  and  say  to  her,  *' I  will  stay; 
hush  !  I  will  stay." 

For  how  long  a  time  did  they  thus  exhaust  each 
other's  strength?     The  sun  was  no  longer  aught 


212  Sappho, 

but  a  red  bar,  constantly  narrowing,  on  the  ho- 
rizon ;  the  pond  was  of  a  slate-gray  hue,  and  one 
would  have  said  that  its  unhealthy  vapor  was  in- 
vading the  moor  and  the  woods  and  the  hillsides 
opposite.  In  the  growing  darkness  he  saw  noth- 
ing but  that  pale  face  raised  to  his,  that  open 
mouth  emitting  a  lament  to  which  there  was  no 
end.  A  little  later,  when  it  was  quite  dark,  her 
cries  subsided.  Then  there  was  the  rushing  sound 
of  floods  of  tears,  without  end,  one  of  those  showers 
that  follow  the  greatest  fury  of  the  tempest,  and 
from  time  to  time  an  "  Oh !  "  deep  and  low,  as  if 
called  forth  by  some  horrible  vision  which  she 
drove  away  and  which  constantly  returned. 

Then  nothing  at  all.  It  was  all  over ;  the  beast 
was  dead.  A  cold  north  wind  arose,  rustled 
among  the  branches,  bringing  the  echo  of  a  dis- 
tant clock  striking  the  hour. 

^'  Come,  let  us  go ;  don't  stay  here." 
He  raised  her  gently,  and  felt  that  she  was  like 
wax  in  his  hands,  as  submissive  as  a  child   and 
convulsed  by  heartrending  sobs.      It   seemed  to 
him  that  she  retail "^  '-^'n   dread,  a  certain 

respect,  for  the  man  who  had  shown  himself  so 
sLrong.  She  walked  beside  him,  keeping  step 
with  him,  but  timidly,  without  taking  his  arm ;  and 
to  see  them  thus,  walking  uncertainly  in  gloomy 
silence  along  the  paths  where  the  yellow  reflection 
of  the  ground  guided  them,  one  would  have  said 
that  they  were  a  couple  of  peasants  returning 
home  exhausted  after  a  long  and  fatiguing  day  in 
the  open  air. 


Sappho,  213 

As  they  came  out  of  the  woods  a  light  appeared 
at  Hochecorne's  open  door,  and  against  it  they 
saw  the  silhouettes  of  two  men.  "  Is  that  you, 
Gaussin?"  asked  Hettema,  walking  toward  them 
with  the  keeper.  They  were  beginning  to  be  anx- 
ious because  of  their  failure  to  return  and  of  the 
groans  they  had  heard  in  the  woods.  Hochecorne 
was  just  going  to  get  his  gun,  to  set  out  in  search 
of  them. 

"  Good-evening,  monsieur,  madame.  The  little 
one  's  much  pleased  with  her  shawl.  I  had  to  put 
it  in  the  bed  with  her." 

It  was  their  last  act  in  common,  that  almsgiving 
of  a  short  time  before ;  their  hands  had  joined  for 
the  last  time  around  the  moribund's  little  body. 

*'  Good-night,  good-night,  Pere  Hochecorne." 
And  they  hurried  away,  all  three,  toward  the 
house,  Hettema  still  greatly  puzzled  concerning 
those  noises  which  filled  the  woods.  "  They  rose 
and  fell  and  rose  again ;  you  'd  have  thought  some- 
body was  killing  an  animal  of  some  sort.  But 
didn't  you  hear  anything?" 

Neither  of  them  replied. 

At  the  corner  of  the  Pavd  des  Gardes  Jean 
hesitated. 

"  Stay  to  dinner,"  she  whispered  imploringly. 
"  Your  train  has  gone ;  you  can  take  the  nine 
o'clock." 

He  went  into  the  house  with  them.  What  need 
he  fear?  Such  a  scene  is  not  acted  twice,  and  the 
least  he  could  do  was  to  give  her  that  trifling 
consolation. 


214  Sappho. 

The  living-room  was  warm,  the  lamp  burned 
brightly,  and  the  sound  of  their  footsteps  in  the 
by-path  had  warned  the  servant,  who  was  placing 
the  soup  on  the  table. 

'*  Here  you  are  at  last !  "  said  Olympe,  already 
seated,  her  napkin  under  her  short  arms.  She 
removed  the  lid  of  the  soup-tureen,  then  suddenly 
paused  with  an  exclamation,  — 

"  Mon  Dieu!  my  dear  —  " 

It  was  Fanny,  haggard  of  face,  seemingly  ten 
years  older,  her  eyes  swollen  and  bloodshot,  with 
mud  on  her  dress  and  even  in  her  hair,  the  terri- 
fied disarray  of  a  prostitute  after  a  chase  by  the 
police.  She  breathed  heavily  a  moment,  her  poor 
inflamed  eyes  blinking  in  the  light;  and  little  by 
little  the  warm  atmosphere  of  the  little  house,  the 
bright  and  attractive  table,  evoked  memories  of  the 
happy  days  and  caused  a  new  outburst  of  tears, 
amid  which  could  be  distinguished  the  words: 

'*  He  is  going  to  leave  me ;  he  is  going  to  be 
married." 

Hettema,  his  wife,  and  the  peasant  woman  who 
was  serving  them  looked  at  one  another  and  at 
Gaussin.  "  At  all  events,  let  us  dine,"  said  the  fat 
man,  evidently  in  a  passion;  and  the  clashing  of 
greedy  spoons  mingled  with  the  sound  of  running 
water  in  the  adjoining  bedroom,  where  Fanny  was 
sponging  her  face.  When  she  returned,  all  blue 
with  powder,  in  a  white  woollen  peignoir,  the  Het- 
temas  watched  her  with  alarm,  expecting  some 
fresh  outburst,  and  were  greatly  astonished  to  see 
her,  without  a  word,  attack  the  food  greedily,  like 


Sappho.  215 

a  shipwrecked  sailor,  and  fill  the  hollow  dug  by 
her  chagrin  and  the  gulf  made  by  her  shrieks  with 
whatever  was  within  reach,  —  bread,  cabbage,  a 
wing  of  the  wild  duck,  potatoes.     She  ate  and  ate. 

The  conversation  was  somewhat  constrained  at 
first,  but  gradually  became  more  spontaneous ;  and 
as  the  Hettemas  talked  only  upon  commonplace, 
material  topics,  such  as  the  method  of  making  pan- 
cakes digest  well  with  preserves,  and  whether  hair 
or  feathers  were  better  to  sleep  on,  they  arrived 
safely  at  the  coffee,  which  the  stout  couple  flavored 
with  a  little  burned  sugar,  and  sipped  slowly  with 
their  elbows  on  the  table. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  see  the  trustful  and  placid 
glance  exchanged  by  those  two  bulky  crib  and 
manger  mates.  They  had  no  desire  to  part,  not 
they.  Jean  surprised  that  glance,  and  in  that 
familiar  room,  filled  with  souvenirs,  with  old  habits 
crouching  in  every  corner,  the  torpor  of  weariness, 
of  digestion,  of  bodily  comfort  stole  over  him. 
Fanny,  who  was  watching  him  closely,  had  softly 
approached  his  chair,  rubbed  against  him,  and 
passed  her  arm  through  his. 

"  Listen,"  he  said  suddenly.  "  Nine  o'clock ! 
adieu  !     I  will  write  to  you." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  was  out-of-doors, 
across  the  street,  feeling  in  the  darkness  for  the 
latch  of  the  gate  at  the  entrance  to  the  lane.  Two 
arms  were  thrown  about  his  waist:  "Kiss  me,  at 
least." 

He  felt  that  he  was  enveloped  in  her  dress,  that 
he  was  impregnated  with  the  perfume,  the  warmth. 


2i6  Sappho, 

of  that  woman's  embrace,  intoxicated  hy  that  fare- 
well kiss,  which  left  in  his  mouth  the  taste  of  fever 
and  of  tears. 

And  she,  feeling  that  he  was  weak,  murmured, 
"Just  a  little  while,  only  a  httle  while." 

A  signal  on  the  track.     It  was  the  train  ! 

How  had  he  the  strength  to  tear  himself  free,  to 
rush  to  the  station  whose  lamps  gleamed  through 
the  leafless  branches  ?  He  was  still  overcome  with 
amazement  as  he  sat  panting  in  a  corner  of  the 
carriage,  gazing  out  through  the  window  at  the 
lighted  windows  of  the  little  house  and  a  white 
figure  at  the  gate.  *'  Adieu  !  adieu  !  "  And  that 
cry  banished  the  speechless  dread  he  had  felt  at 
that  curve  in  the  track  of  seeing  his  mistress  in  the 
place  she  occupied  in  his  dream  of  death. 

Putting  out  his  head,  he  watched  their  little  sum- 
mer house  recede  and  grow  smaller  and  rise  and 
fall  in  the  inequalities  of  the  ground,  until  it  was 
no  more  than  a  wandering  star.  Suddenly  he  felt 
a  prodigious  joy  and  sense  of  relief.  How  freely 
he  breathed,  how  lovely  the  whole  valley  of  Meu- 
don  was,  and  those  broad  black  hillsides  ending 
far  away  in  a  twinkling  triangle  of  innumerable 
lights,  descending  toward  the  Seine  in  regular 
lines  !  Irene  was  waiting  for  him  there,  and  he  was 
flying  to  her  with  all  the  speed  of  the  train,  with  all 
his  lover's  eagerness,  with  all  his  impulsive  yearn- 
ing for  a  new  and  honorable  Hfe. 

Paris !  He  called  a  cab  to  be  driven  to  Place 
Vendome.  But  under  the  gaslight  he  scrutinized 
his  clothes,  his  shoes  covered  with  mud,  a  thick, 


Sappho,  217 

clogging  mud,  his  whole  past  which  still  held  him 
fast  by  burdensome  and  degrading  bonds.  "  Oh, 
no  !  not  to-night."  And  he  drove  to  his  old  lodg- 
ing-house on  Rue  Jacob,  where  Le  Fenat  had 
taken  a  room  for  him  near  his  own. 


2i8  Sappho. 


XIII. 

The  next  day  Cesaire,  who  had  taken  upon  him- 
self the  dehcate  commission  of  going  to  Chaville  to 
get  his  nephew's  books  and  other  property,  to  con- 
summate the  rupture  by  moving  out  of  the  house, 
returned  very  late,  just  as  Gaussin  was  beginning 
to  tire  himself  out  with  all  sorts  of  wild  and  sinister 
conjectures.  At  last  a  cab  with  a  rail  around  the 
top,  heavy  as  a  hearse,  turned  the  corner  of  Rue 
Jacob,  loaded  with  corded  boxes  and  an  enormous 
trunk  which  he  recognized  as  his  own,  and  his 
uncle  entered,  mysterious  and  heartbroken. 

''  I  took  plenty  of  time,  in  order  to  pick  up  every- 
thing at  once  and  not  have  to  go  there  again." 
He  pointed  to  the  boxes  which  two  porters  were 
placing  in  different  parts  of  the  room.  ''Your 
clothes  and  your  Hnen  are  in  this  one,  your  papers 
and  books  there.  Nothing  is  missing  but  your  let- 
ters ;  she  begged  me  to  let  her  keep  them,  so  that 
she  could  read  them  over  again,  could  have  some- 
thing from  you.  I  could  n't  see  that  there  was  any 
danger  in  that.     She  's  such  a  soft-hearted  girl ! " 

He  sat  down  on  the  trunk,  breathing  hard,  spong- 
ing his  forehead  with  his  brown  silk  handkerchief, 
as  large  as  a  napkin.  Jean  dared  not  ask  him  for 
details,  in  what  mood  he  had  found  her ;  the  other 
furnished  none  for  fear  of  making  him  sad.     And 


Sappho.  219 

they  filled  that  painful  silence,  pregnant  with  things 
unexpressed,  by  remarks  as  to  the  sudden  change 
in  the  weather,  which  had  grown  much  colder 
since  the  preceding  day,  as  to  the  depressing  as- 
pect of  that  bare,  desert  suburb  of  Paris,  planted 
with  factory  chimneys,  and  with  enormous  cast- 
iron  cylinders,  used  as  storehouses  by  market- 
gardeners. 

"  Did  she  give  you  nothing  for  me,  uncle?"  Jean 
asked  after  a  while. 

"  No ;  you  need  have  no  fear.  She  won't  bother 
you ;  she  has  chosen  her  course  with  much  deter- 
mination and  dignity." 

Why  did  Jean  detect  in  those  few  words  a  sug- 
gestion of  blame,  a  rebuke  for  his  harshness? 

"I  tell  you,"  continued  the  uncle,  ''job  for  job, 
I  prefer  La  Mornas's  claws  to  that  unhappy  crea- 
ture's despair." 

"  Did  she  cry  much?" 

**  Oh,  my  dear  boy  —  And  so  hard,  so  heartily, 
that  I  sobbed  myself  as  I  sat  opposite  her  with  no 
strength  to  — "  He  blew  his  nose  and  shook  ofif 
his  emotion  with  a  shake  of  the  head  like  an  old 
goat.  ''However,  what  can  you  expect?  It  isn't 
your  fault ;  you  could  n't  pass  your  whole  life  there. 
Things  are  settled  quite  as  they  should  be;  you 
leave  her  some  money  and  her  furniture.  And 
now,  on  with  the  courting !  Try  to  arrange  your 
marriage  in  good  season.  Such  affairs  are  too  se- 
rious for  me.  The  consul  will  have  to  take  a  hand 
in  it.  As  for  me,  I  can  only  deal  with  left-handed 
connections."     He  was  suddenly  seized  by  a  fresh 


220  Sappho. 

paroxysm  of  melancholy,  and  added,  as  he  stood 
with  his  forehead  against  the  window,  looking  out 
at  the  low  clouds  from  which  the  rain  poured  down 
upon  the  roofs,  — 

''  I  tell  you,  the  world  is  growing  dismal ;  in  my 
day  we  used  to  part  more  cheerfully  than  this." 

When  Le  Fenat  had  gone,  accompanied  by  his 
elevating  machine,  Jean,  deprived  of  that  restless, 
talkative  good-humor,  had  a  long  week  to  pass,  an 
impression  of  emptiness  and  solitude,  all  the  dark 
bewilderment  of  widowhood.  In  such  cases,  even 
without  regret  for  a  vanished  passion,  you  seek  for 
your  double,  you  miss  him ;  for  the  life  together, 
the  sharing  of  table  and  bed,  create  a  network  of 
invisible,  subtle  bonds,  whose  strength  is  disclosed 
only  by  the  effort  and  the  pain  of  breaking  them. 
The  influence  of  close  association  and  habit  is  so 
marvellously  penetrating  that  two  persons  who 
live  the  same  life  end  by  resembling  each  other. 

His  five  years  with  Sappho  had  not  as  yet 
moulded  him  to  that  extent;  but  his  body  re- 
tained the  marks  of  the  chain  and  felt  its  heavy, 
dragging  weight.  And  just  as  it  happened  on 
several  occasions  that  his  steps  turned  instinctively 
toward  Chaville  when  he  left  his  office,  so,  in  the 
morning,  he  would  feel  on  the  pillow  beside  him 
for  the  heavy  masses  of  black  hair,  released  from 
their  comb,  upon  which  his  first  kiss  was  wont  to 
fall. 

The  evenings  especially  seemed  interminable  to 
him  in  those  furnished  lodgings  which  recalled  the 
early  days  of  their  liaison,  the  presence  of  another 


Sappho.  221 

mistress,  reserved  and  silent,  whose  little  card  sur- 
rounded the  mirror  with  an  alcove  perfume,  and 
with  the  mystery  of  her  name :  Fanny  Legrand. 
Thereupon  he  would  leave  the  house  and  try  to 
tire  himself  out,  to  distract  his  thoughts  with  the 
music  and  glare  of  some  petty  theatre,  until  old 
Bouchereau  should  give  him  the  right  to  pass  three 
evenings  a  week  with  his  fiancee. 

They  had  reached  an  understanding  at  last. 
Irene  loved  him,  UncU  was  content ;  the  marriage 
was  to  take  place  early  in  April,  at  the  end  of  the 
course  of  lectures.  They  had  the  three  winter 
months  to  see  each  other,  to  become  acquainted 
with  each  other,  to  desire  each  other,  to  make  the 
fond  and  charming  paraphrase  of  the  first  glance, 
which  binds  hearts  together,  and  the  first  avowal, 
which  causes  unrest. 

On  the  evening  of  his  betrothal,  Jean,  returning 
home  without  the  slightest  inclination  for  sleep, 
felt  an  impulse  to  arrange  his  room  so  as  to  give  it 
an  orderly,  hard-working  appearance,  obeying  the 
natural  instinct  to  make  our  life  correspond  with 
our  thoughts.  He  put  his  table  in  place  and  his 
books,  which  he  had  not  as  yet  unpacked,  and 
which  were  tossed  pell-mell  into  one  of  those 
packing-boxes  made  in  haste,  the  Code  between 
a  pile  of  handkerchiefs  and  a  gardening  jacket. 
As  he  was  arranging  the  books,  a  letter  in  his 
mistress's  handwriting,  with  no  envelope,  fell  from 
between  the  leaves  of  a  Dictionary  of  Commercial 
Law,  the  book  he  consulted  most  frequently. 

Fanny  had  intrusted  it  to  the  hazard  of  his  fut- 


121  .  Sappho, 

ure  labors,  distrusting  the  too  short-lived  emotion 
of  Cesaire,  and  thinking  that  she  would  gain  her 
object  more  surely  in  that  way.  He  determined 
not  to  open  it  at  first,  but  yielded  at  the  very  mild, 
very  reasonable  words  with  which  it  began,  her 
agitation  being  evident  in  the  trembling  of  the 
pen,  the  unevenness  of  the  lines.  She  asked  but 
one  favor,  a  single  one,  that  he  would  return  to 
her  from  time  to  time.  She  would  say  nothing, 
she  would  reproach  him  with  nothing,  neither  with 
his  marriage  nor  with  the  separation,  which  she 
knew  to  be  absolute  and  final.  But  if  she  could 
only  see  him ! 

*'  Remember  that  it  was  a  terrible  blow  to  me, 
and  so  sudden,  so  unexpected !  I  am  just  as  If 
some  one  had  died,  or  I  had  been  burned  out,  —  I 
don't  know  which  way  to  turn.  I  weep,  I  expect 
you,  I  gaze  at  the  place  where  my  happiness  used 
to  lie.  No  one  but  you  can  accustom  me  to  this 
new  situation.  As  an  act  of  charity,  come  and 
see  me,  so  that  I  may  feel  not  so  entirely  alone. 
I  am  afraid  of  myself." 

Those  lamentations,  that  imploring  summons, 
ran  through  the  whole  letter,  with  the  constantly 
recurring  refrain,  **  Come,  come."  He  could  fancy 
himself  in  the  clearing  in  the  heart  of  the  woods, 
with  Fanny  at  his  feet,  and  that  piteous  face  raised 
to  his  under  the  pale  violet  sky  of  evening,  all 
haggard  and  soft  with  tears,  that  mouth  opening 
in  the  darkness  to  cry  out.  It  was  that  that 
haunted  him  all  night,  and  disturbed  his  sleep,  and 
not  the   intoxicating  bliss  he  had  brought  from 


Sappho,  223 

Place  Vendome.  It  was  that  worn,  aged  face  that 
he  constantly  saw,  despite  all  his  efforts  to  place 
between  it  and  him  the  face  with  pure  outlines, 
the  checks  like  a  carnation  in  flower,  which  the 
declaration  of  love  tinged  with  a  Httle  red  flush 
under  the  eyes. 

That  letter  was  dated  a  week  before;  for  a 
whole  week  the  unhappy  creature  had  been  await- 
ing a  word  or  a  visit,  the  encouragement  she 
sought  in  resigning  herself  to  her  fate.  But  how 
did  it  happen  that  she  had  not  written  since? 
Perhaps  she  was  ill ;  and  his  former  fears  returned. 
He  thought  that  Hettema  might  be  able  to  give 
him  news  of  her,  and,  relying  upon  the  regularity 
of  his  habits,  he  went  and  waited  for  him  in  front 
of  the  Artillery  headquarters. 

The  last  stroke  of  ten  was  striking  at  Saint 
Thomas  d'Aquin's  when  the  stout  man  turned  the 
corner  of  the  little  square,  with  his  collar  turned 
up  and  his  pipe  between  his  teeth,  and  holding 
the  latter  with  both  hands  to  warm  his  fingers. 
Jean  watched  him  approaching  in  the  distance, 
deeply  moved  by  all  the  memories  that  the  sight 
of  him  recalled ;  but  Hettema  greeted  him  with  a 
repugnance  which  he  hardly  tried  to  conceal. 

"It's  you,  is  it?  Perhaps  we  haven't  cursed 
you  this  week  !  —  and  we  went  into  the  country  to 
lead  a  tranquil  life." 

As  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  finishing  his  pipe, 
he  told  him  that  on  the  preceding  Sunday  they  had 
asked  Fanny  to  dinner  with  the  child,  whose  day 
it  was  to  be  at  home,  hoping  to  turn  her  mind  from 


224  Sappho. 

her  miserable  thoughts.  The  dinner  passed  off 
very  cheerfully :  she  even  sang  something  to  them 
at  dessert ;  then  about  ten  o'clock  they  separated, 
and  the  Hettemas  were  preparing  to  go  comfort- 
ably to  bed,  when  some  one  suddenly  knocked  on 
the  shutters,  and  little  Josaph  cried  in  a  terrified 
voice,  — 

*'  Come  quick ;  mamma 's  trying  to  poison  her- 
self! " 

Hettema  rushed  to  the  house  and  arrived  in 
time  to  take  the  phial  of  laudanum  from  her  by 
force.  He  had  had  to  fight,  to  throw  his  arms 
around  her  and  hold  her,  and  at  the  same  time 
defend  himself  against  the  blows  of  her  head  and 
her  comb,  which  she  aimed  at  his  face.  In  the 
struggle,  the  phial  broke,  the  laudanum  was  spilled 
on  everything,  and  there  was  no  harm  done  be- 
yond the  spotting  and  perfuming  of  clothes  with 
the  poison.  "  But  you  can  understand  that  such 
scenes,  a  whole  drama  of  sensational  news-items, 
don't  suit  peaceful  folks  like  us.  So,  it 's  decided, 
I  Ve  given  my  notice,  and  next  month  I  move." 
He  replaced  his  pipe  in  its  case,  and  with  a  very 
affable  adieu  disappeared  under  the  low  arches  of 
a  small  courtyard,  leaving  Gaussin  thoroughly  be- 
wildered by  what  he  had  heard. 

He  pictured  to  himself  the  scene  in  that  chamber 
which  had  been  theirs,  the  terror  of  the  little  one 
calling  for  help,  the  rough  struggle  with  the  stout 
man,  and  he  fancied  that  he  could  taste  the  bitter, 
sleep-producing  flavor  of  the  spilled  laudanum. 
The  horror  clung  to  him  all  day,  aggravated  by 


Sappho.  225 

the  thought  of  the  isolation  that  was  soon  to  be 
her  lot.  When  the  Hettemas  had  gone  who 
would  restrain  her  hand  when  she  made  another 
attempt? 

A  letter  arrived,  and  comforted  him  to  some  ex- 
tent. Fanny  thanked  him  for  not  being  so  hard- 
hearted as  he  chose  to  appear,  since  he  still  took 
some  interest  in  the  poor  abandoned  wretch,  "  He 
told  you,  did  he  not?  I  tried  to  die  ;  it  was  because 
I  felt  so  lonely!  I  tried,  but  I  could  not;  he 
stopped  me  ;  perhaps  my  hand  trembled,  —  the  fear 
of  suffering,  of  becoming  ugly.  Oh,  how  did  that 
little  Dore  have  the  courage?  After  the  first 
shame  of  failure,  it  was  a  joy  to  think  that  I  could 
still  write  to  you,  love  you  at  a  distance,  see  you 
again ;  for  I  have  not  lost  the  hope  that  you  will 
come  once,  as  one  goes  to  see  an  unhappy  friend 
in  a  house  of  mourning,  for  pity's  sake,  simply 
for  pity's  sake." 

Thereafter  there  came  from  Chaville  every  two 
or  three  days  letters  of  varying  length,  a  journal 
of  sorrow  which  he  had  not  the  heart  to  send  back, 
and  which  enlarged  the  sore  spot  in  that  tender 
heart  made  by  a  pity  without  love,  no  longer  for 
the  mistress,  but  for  the  fellow-creature  suffering 
because  of  him. 

One  day  her  theme  was  the  departure  of  her 
neighbors,  those  witnesses  of  her  past  happiness, 
who  carried  away  so  many  souvenirs.  All  that 
she  had  now  to  remind  her  of  it  was  the  furniture, 
the  walls  of  their  little  house,  and  the  servant, 
poor  uncivilized   creature,  as   little   interested  in 

15 


226  Sappho, 

anything  as  the  thrush,  which  huddled  sadly  in  a 
corner  of  his  cage,  shivering  with  the  cold. 

Another  day,  when  a  pale  sunbeam  shone 
through  her  window,  she  awoke  joyful  in  the  firm 
conviction,  "He  will  come  to-day!"  Why?  for 
no  reason,  just  an  idea.  She  at  once  set  about 
making  the  house  attractive,  and  herself  coquettish 
in  her  Sunday  dress  and  with  her  hair  arranged  as 
he  hked  it;  and  then  she  counted  the  trains  from 
her  window  until  evening,  until  the  last  trace  of 
light  had  vanished,  and  listened  for  his  footstep  on 
the  Pave  des  Gardes.     She  must  be  mad  ! 

Sometimes  just  a  line:  "It  rains;  it  is  dark;  I 
am  alone,  and  I  am  weeping  for  you."  Or  else  she 
would  content  herself  with  placing  in  the  envelope 
a  poor  little  flower,  all  drenched  and  stiff  with  frost, 
the  last  flower  from  their  little  garden.  That  little 
flower,  picked  from  under  the  snow,  conveyed  the 
idea  of  winter,  of  solitude  and  abandonment,  better 
than  all  her  lamentations ;  he  could  see  the  place, 
at  the  end  of  the  path,  and  a  woman's  skirt  brush- 
ing against  the  flower-beds,  wet  to  the  hem,  saun- 
tering to  and  fro  in  a  solitary  promenade. 

The  result  of  this  pity,  which  tore  his  heart,  was 
that  he  still  lived  with  Fanny  notwithstanding  the 
rupture.  His  mind  was  there,  he  pictured  her  to 
himself  every  hour  of  the  day ;  but,  by  a  singular 
freak  of  his  memory,  although  it  was  only  five 
or  six  weeks  since  their  separation,  and  the  most 
trivial  details  of  their  home  were  still  present  to 
his  mind,  from  La  Balue's  cage,  opposite  a  wooden 
cuckoo  won  at  a  country  fair,  to  the  branches  of 


Sappho,  227 

the  walnut-tree  which  tapped  at  their  dressing- 
room  window  in  the  Hghtest  breeze,  the  woman 
herself  no  longer  appeared  to  him  distinctly.  He 
saw  her  in  a  sort  of  mist,  with  a  single  detail  of 
her  face  clearly  marked  and  painful  to  see,  —  the 
deformed  mouth,  the  smile  punctured  by  the  gap 
once  filled  by  the  missing  tooth. 

Thus  withered  and  aged,  what  would  become  of 
the  poor  creature  by  whose  side  he  had  slept  so 
long?  When  the  money  he  had  left  her  was  spent, 
where  would  she  go,  to  what  depths  would  she  de- 
scend? And  suddenly  there  rose  before  him  in 
his  memory  the  wretched  street-walker  he  had  met 
one  night  in  an  English  tavern,  dying  of  thirst 
before  her  slice  of  smoked  salmon.  She  whose 
attentions,  whose  passionate  and  faithful  affection 
he  had  so  long  accepted,  would  become  like  her ! 
And  that  thought  drove  him  to  despair.  But  what 
could  he  do?  Because  he  had  had  the  misfortune 
to  meet  that  woman,  to  live  some  time  with  her, 
was  he  doomed  to  keep  her  forever,  to  sacrifice  his 
happiness  to  her?  Why  he,  and  not  the  others? 
In  the  name  of  what  principle  of  justice? 

Although  forbidding  himself  to  see  her,  he  wrote 
to  her;  and  his  letters,  purposely  matter-of-fact 
and  dry,  afforded  glimpses  of  his  emotion  beneath 
soothing  and  prudent  counsels.  He  urged  her  to 
take  Josaph  away  from  the  boarding-school,  to 
keep  him  at  home  with  her  to  divert  her  thoughts ; 
but  Fanny  refused.  What  was  the  use  of  inflict- 
ing her  sorrow,  her  discouragement,  on  that  child  ? 
The  little  fellow  had  quite  enough  of  it  on  Sunday, 


228  Sappho, 

when  he  prowled  from  chair  to  chair,  wandered 
from  the  living-room  to  the  garden,  conscious  that 
some  great  misfortune  had  cast  a  blight  upon  the 
house,  and  not  daring  to  ask  any  more  questions 
about  "  Papa  Jean,"  since  she  had  told  him,  sobbing, 
that  he  had  gone  away  and  would  not  come  back. 

'*  All  my  papas  go  away,  don't  they?  " 

And  that  remark  of  the  little  foundling,  repeated 
in  a  heartrending  letter,  weighed  heavily  on  Gaus- 
sin's  heart.  Soon  the  thought  that  she  was  at 
Chaville  became  so  oppressive  to  him  that  he  ad- 
vised her  to  return  to  Paris,  to  see  people.  With 
her  sad  experience  of  men  and  separations,  Fanny 
saw  in  that  suggestion  simply  a  shocking  egotism, 
a  hope  to  rid  himself  of  her  forever  by  one  of  those 
sudden  fancies  for  which  she  had  been  famous ;  and 
she  stated  her  views  frankly :  — 

*'  You  know  what  I  said  to  you  long  ago.  I  will 
remain  your  wife  in  spite  of  everything,  your  faith- 
ful and  loving  wife.  Our  little  house  encompasses 
me  with  you,  and  I  would  not  leave  it  for  anything 
on  earth.  What  should  I  do  in  Paris?  I  am  dis- 
gusted with  my  past,  which  keeps  you  away  from 
me;  and  then  just  think  what  temptation  you 
would  expose  us  to !  Do  you  think  you  are  very 
strong,  pray?  Then  come,  bad  boy,  once,  only 
once." 

He  did  not  go ;  but  one  Sunday  afternoon,  when 
he  was  alone  and  working,  he  heard  two  little  taps 
at  his  door.  He  was  startled,  recognizing  her 
abrupt  way  of  announcing  her  presence,  as  of 
yore.     Fearing  to  find  some  order  below,  she  had 


Sappho.  229 

ascended  the  stairs  at  a  breath,  without  asking  any 
questions.  He  crept  to  the  door,  his  footsteps 
muffled  in  the  carpet,  and  heard  her  breathe 
through  the  crack, — 

"Are  you  there,  Jean?" 

Oh,  that  humble,  broken  voice !  Once  again, 
not  very  loud,  '*  Jean  !  "  then  a  sighing  groan,  the 
rustling  of  a  letter,  and  the  caress  and  farewell  of  a 
kiss  thrown  through  the  door. 

When  she  had  descended  the  stairs,  slowly,  stair 
by  stair,  as  if  expecting  to  be  recalled,  then,  not 
before,  did  Jean  pick  up  the  letter  and  open  it. 
Little  Hochecorne  had  been  buried  that  morning 
at  the  Children's  Hospital.  She  had  come  with 
the  father  and  some  few  persons  from  Chaville,  and 
had  been  unable  to  resist  going  up  to  see  him  or 
to  leave  these  hues  written  beforehand.  ''What 
did  I  tell  you  ?  If  I  lived  in  Paris,  I  should  be  on 
your  stairs  all  the  time.  Adieu,  my  dear;  I  am 
going  back  to  our  home." 

As  he  read,  his  eyes  blurred  with  tears,  he  re- 
called a  similar  scene  on  Rue  de  I'Arcade,  the  grief 
of  the  discarded  lover,  the  letter  slipped  under  the 
door,  and  Fanny's  heartless  laughter.  So  she 
loved  him  better  than  he  loved  Irene !  Or  is  it 
true  that  man,  being  more  involved  than  woman 
in  the  conflicts  of  business  and  of  Hfe,  has  not,  like 
her,  the  exclusiveness  of  love,  the  forgetfulness  of 
and  indifference  to  everything  save  her  one  absorb- 
ing passion? 

That  torment,  those  pangs  of  pity,  were  allayed 
only   in    Irene's   presence.      There    only   did   his 


230  Sappho, 

agony  relax,  melt  away  beneath  the  soft  blue 
rays  of  her  glances.  He  was  conscious  of  naught 
save  a  great  weariness,  a  temptation  to  lay  his 
head  on  her  shoulder,  and  to  remain  there  without 
speaking  or  moving,  under  her  wing. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  would  say  to  him. 
"Aren't  you  happy?" 

Yes,  indeed,  very  happy.  But  why  did  his  hap- 
piness consist  of  so  much  melancholy  and  weeping? 
At  times  he  was  tempted  to  tell  her  everything, 
as  a  kind  friend  who  would  understand  his  misery ; 
without  considering,  poor  fool,  the  unhappiness  that 
such  confidences  cause  in  untried  hearts,  the  in- 
curable wounds  they  may  inflict  upon  the  trustful- 
ness of  an  attachment.  Ah  !  if  he  could  only  have 
carried  her  away,  have  fled  with  her !  he  felt  that 
that  would  be  the  end  of  his  misery;  but  old 
Bouchereau  would  not  advance  by  one  hour  the 
appointed  time.  "  I  am  an  old  man ;  I  am  sick. 
I  shall  never  see  my  child  again,  so  don't  rob  me 
of  these  last  days." 

Beneath  his  stern  exterior  that  great  man  was 
the  kindest  of  men.  Doomed  irrevocably  by  the 
aflection  of  the  heart,  whose  progress  he  himself 
followed  and  noted,  he  talked  about  it  with  mar- 
vellous sang-froid,  continued  his  lectures  when  he 
could  hardly  breathe,  ausculted  patients  who  were 
less  ill  than  he.  There  was  but  one  weak  side  to 
that  boundless  mind,  and  it  was  one  that  betrayed 
the  peasant  origin  of  the  native  of  Touraine :  his 
respect  for  titles,  for  the  nobility.  And  the  re- 
membrance  of  the  little  towers   of  Castelet  and 


Sappho,  231 

the  venerable  name  of  Armandy  were  not  without 
their  influence  on  his  readiness  to  accept  Jean  as 
his  niece's   husband. 

The  marriage  was  to  take  place  at  Castelet,  in 
order  to  avoid  discommoding  the  poor  mother, 
who  sent  every  week  to  her  future  daughter  an 
affectionate  letter,  dictated  to  Divonne  or  to  one 
of  the  little  saints  of  Bethany.  And  it  was  a  sooth- 
ing delight  to  him  to  talk  with  Irene  about  his 
family,  to  find  Castelet  on  Place  Vendome,  all  his 
affections  centred  around  his  dear  betrothed. 

But  he  was  dismayed  to  feel  so  old,  so  weary, 
compared  with  her,  to  see  her  take  a  childish 
pleasure  in  things  which  no  longer  amused  him, 
in  the  every-day  joys  of  life,  already  discounted 
by  him.  For  instance,  the  list  that  must  be  pre- 
pared of  all  that  they  would  need  to  take  to  the 
distant  consulate,  furniture  and  coverings  to  be 
selected ;  and  one  evening  he  paused  in  the 
middle  of  it,  with  hesitating  pen,  dismayed  to  find 
his  mind  returning  to  his  installation  on  Rue 
d'Amsterdam,  and  by  the  thought  that  he  must 
inevitably  begin  anew  all  the  pleasures  that  were 
exhausted  and  forever  ended  for  him  by  those  five 
years  with  another  woman,  in  a  burlesque  of  mar- 
riage and  domesticity. 


^32  Sappho, 


XIV. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  fellow,  he  died  last  night  in  Rosa's 
arms.  I  have  just  taken  him  to  the  taxidermist's." 
De  Potter,  the  musician,  whom  Jean  met  coming 
out  of  a  shop  on  Rue  du  Bac,  clung  to  him  with 
an  effusiveness  hardly  compatible  with  his  features, 
the  stern  and  impassive  features  of  a  man  of  busi- 
ness, and  described  to  him  the  martyrdom  of  poor 
Bichito,  slain  by  the  Parisian  winter,  shrivelled  with 
cold,  despite  the  wads  of  cotton-wool,  the  saucer 
of  spirits  of  wine  that  had  been  kept  lighted  for 
two  months  under  his  little  nest,  as  for  children 
born  before  their  time.  Nothing  could  keep  him 
from  shivering ;  and  the  previous  night,  while  they 
were  all  about  him,  one  last  shudder  shook  him 
from  head  to  tail,  and  he  died  like  a  good  Chris- 
tian, thanks  to  the  quantities  of  holy  water  which 
Mamma  Pilar  poured  on  his  scaly  skin,  where  life 
vanished  in  changing  hues,  in  prismatic  displays, 
saying,  with  uplifted  eyes  :   "  God  forgive  him  !  " 

**  I  laugh  about  it,  but  my  heart  is  heavy  all 
the  same ;  especially  when  I  think  of  the  grief  of 
my  poor  Rosa,  whom  I  left  in  tears.  Luckily, 
Fanny  was  with  her." 

"Fanny?" 

''  Yes,  we  had  n't  seen  her  for  ages.  She  ar- 
rived this  morning  just  in  the  midst  of  the  drama, 


Sappho,  233 

and  the  dear  girl  remained  to  comfort  her  friend." 
Heedless  of  the  effect  produced  by  his  words, 
he  added:  ''  So  it's  all  over  between  you?  You 
aren't  together  now?  Do  you  remember  our 
conversation  on  the  lake  at  Enghien?  At  all 
events,  you  profit  by  the  lessons  you  receive." 
And  a  touch  of  envy  could  be  detected  in  his 
approbation. 

Gaussin  knit  his  brow,  feeling  genuinely  dis- 
gusted at  the  thought  that  Fanny  had  returned  to 
Rosario ;  but  he  was  angry  with  himself  for  such 
weakness,  for,  after  all,  he  no  longer  had  any  sort 
of  authority  over  her  life  or  responsibility  for  it. 

De  Potter  stopped  in  front  of  a  house  on  Rue  de 
Beaune,  a  very  old  street  of  the  aristocratic  Paris 
of  an  earlier  day,  into  which  they  had  turned. 
There  it  was  that  he  lived,  or  was  supposed  to  Hve, 
for  the  purposes  of  propriety  and  for  the  world  at 
large ;  for  in  fact  he  passed  his  time  on  Avenue  de 
Villiers  or  at  Enghien,  and  made  only  brief  visits 
to  the  conjugal  domicile,  so  that  his  wife  and  child 
might  not  seem  too  entirely  abandoned. 

Jean  was  walking  on,  his  mouth  already  open  to 
say  adieu,  but  the  other  held  his  hand  in  his  long, 
hard  key-board  crusher's  hands,  and,  without  a 
trace  of  embarrassment,  like  a  man  to  whom  his 
vice  is  no  longer  a  matter  for  apology, — 

**  Pray  do  me  a  favor.  Come  upstairs  with  me. 
I  was  to  dine  with  my  wife  to-day,  but  I  really 
cannot  leave  my  poor  Rosa  all  alone  with  her  de- 
spair. You  will  serve  as  a  pretext  for  my  going 
out  and  avoid  a  tiresome  explanation." 


234  Sappho, 

The  musician's  study,  a  superb  but  cold  bour- 
geois apartment  on  the  second  floor,  smelt  of  the 
solitude  of  the  room  in  which  no  work  is  done. 
Everything  was  too  clean,  without  the  slightest 
disorder,  with  none  of  the  feverish  activity  which 
infects  objects  and  furniture.  Not  a  book,  not  a 
paper  on  the  table,  which  was  occupied  in  solitary 
majesty  by  a  huge  bronze  inkstand,  without  ink, 
and  polished  as  if  for  exhibition  in  a  shop-window ; 
nor  was  there  a  sign  of  music  on  the  old  spinet- 
shaped  piano,  by  which  the  early  works  were  in- 
spired. And  a  bust  of  white  marble,  the  bust  of  a 
young  woman  with  refined  features  and  a  sweet  ex- 
pression, pale  in  the  fading  light,  made  the  fireless, 
draped  fireplace  even  colder,  and  seemed  to  gaze 
sadly  at  the  walls  covered  with  beribboned  golden 
wreaths,  with  medals,  with  commemorative  frames, 
a  glorious,  pompous  collection  generously  left  to 
his  wife  by  way  of  compensation,  and  cared  for  by 
her  as  the  decorations  of  the  tomb  of  her  happiness. 

They  had  hardly  entered  the  study  when  the 
door  opened  again  and  Madame  de  Potter  ap- 
peared. 

*'  Is  it  you,  Gustave?  " 

She  thought  that  he  was  alone,  and  stopped 
abruptly  at  sight  of  the  strange  face,  with  evident 
disquietude.  Refined  and  pretty,  fashionably  but 
quietly  dressed,  she  seemed  to  have  more  char- 
acter than  her  bust,  the  sweet  expression  of  her 
face  being  replaced  by  a  courageous  and  nervous 
determination.  In  society  opinions  were  divided 
with  regard  to  her.     Some  blamed  her  for  endur- 


Sappho.  235 

ing  the  advertised  contempt  of  her  husband,  that 
second  establishment  known  of  all  the  world; 
others,  on  the  contrary,  admired  her  silent  resigna- 
tion. And  she  was  generally  considered  a  placid 
creature,  loving  her  repose  above  everything,  find- 
ing sufficient  compensation  for  her  widowhood  in 
the  caresses  of  a  lovely  child  and  the  satisfaction 
of  bearing  the  name  of  a  great  man. 

But  while  the  musician  presented  his  companion 
and  muttered  some  falsehood  or  other  to  escape 
the  dinner  at  home,  Jean  could  see  by  the  change 
that  passed  over  that  youthful  face,  by  the  fixity  of 
that  glance  which  no  longer  saw  nor  listened,  as  if 
absorbed  by  mental  suffering,  that  a  terrible  sor- 
row was  buried  alive  beneath  that  worldly  exterior. 
She  seemed  to  accept  the  fable,  which  she  did  not 
believe,  and  simply  said  in  a  gentle  tone,  — 

"  Raymond  will  cry ;  I  promised  him  that  we 
would  dine  by  his  bed." 

"  How  is  he  ? "  asked  De  Potter,  distraught, 
impatient. 

"  Better,  but  he  still  coughs.  Are  n't  you  com- 
ing to  see  him?  " 

He  muttered  something  in  his  mustache,  pre- 
tending to  be  looking  around  the  room:  "Not  now 
—  in  a  great  hurry — appointment  at  the  club  at 
six  o'clock."  What  he  was  most  anxious  to  avoid 
was  being  left  alone  with  her. 

"  Adieu,  then,"  said  the  young  woman,  suddenly 
subdued,  her  features  resuming  their  serenity,  like 
a  placid  pool  disturbed  to  its  lowest  depths  by  a 
stone.     She  bowed  and  disappeared. 


236  Sappho. 

"Let  us  be  off!" 

And  De  Potter,  free  once  more,  left  the  room, 
followed  by  Gaussin,  who  watched  him  as  he  went 
downstairs  in  front  of  him,  stiff  and  correct  in  his 
long  tight-fitting  frock-coat  of  English  cut,  —  that 
ill-omened  lover,  who  was  so  deeply  affected  when 
he  carried  his  mistress's  chameleon  to  be  stuffed, 
and  left  his  house  without  kissing  his  sick  child. 

"All  this,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  musician, 
as  if  in  answer  to  his  friend's  thought,  "  is  the  fault 
of  those  who  made  me  marry.  A  genuine  favor 
to  me  and  to  that  poor  woman  !  What  an  insane 
idea  to  try  to  make  a  husband  and  father  of  me ! 
I  was  Rosa's  lover ;  I  remained  so,  and  I  shall  re- 
main so  until  one  of  us  dies.  Does  a  man  ever 
cut  loose  from  a  vice  that  seizes  him  just  at  the 
right  moment  and  holds  him  fast?  Take  your 
own  case,  —  are  you  sure  that  if  Fanny  had 
chosen  —  " 

He  hailed  an  empty  cab  which  was  passing  and 
added,  as  he  stepped  in,  — 

"  A  propos  of  Fanny,  do  you  know  the  news  ? 
Flamant  is  pardoned ;  he  has  left  Mazas.  It  was 
Dechelette's  petition.  Poor  Dechelette !  he  did 
some  good  even  after  his  death." 

Gaussin  stood  still,  with  a  mad  longing  to  run, 
to  overtake  those  wheels  jolting  rapidly  down  the 
dark  street  where  the  lamps  were  being  lighted, 
and  was  astounded  to  find  himself  so  deeply  moved. 
"  Flamant  pardoned  —  left  Mazas  !  "  he  repeated 
the  words  softly,  seeing  in  them  an  explanation  of 
Fanny's  silence  for  several  days,  of  her  lamenta- 


Sappho,  ^37 

tions  abruptly  broken  off,  hushed  under  the  ca- 
resses of  a  comforter;  for  the  poor  devil's  first 
thought,  when  he  was  set  free,  must  have  been  for 
her. 

He  remembered  the  affectionate  letters  from  the 
prison,  his  mistress's  obstinacy  in  defending  him 
alone,  when  she  held  the  others  so  cheap ;  and 
instead  of  congratulating  himself  upon  a  piece  of 
good  fortune  which  logically  relieved  him  of  all 
cause  for  anxiety,  of  all  remorse,  an  indefinable 
heartache  kept  him  awake  and  excited  most  of  the 
night.  Why?  He  no  longer  loved  her;  but  he 
thought  of  his  letters,  still  in  that  woman's  hands, 
which  she  would  read  to  the  other,  perhaps,  and 
which  —  who  knows  ?  —  she  might  some  day,  under 
an  evil  influence,  make  use  of  to  disturb  his  repose, 
his  happiness. 

Whether  it  was  false  or  genuine,  or  whether,  un- 
known to  him,  it  concealed  a  fear  of  another  sort, 
that  anxiety  ^bout  his  letters  led  him  to  determine 
upon  an  imprudent  step,  the  visit  to  Chaville  which 
he  had  always  obstinately  refused  to  make.  But 
to  whom  could  he  intrust  so  delicate  and  confiden- 
tial a  mission  ?  One  morning  in  February  he  took 
the  ten  o'clock  train,  very  calm  in  mind  and  heart, 
with  no  other  fear  than  that  of  finding  the  house 
closed  and  the  woman  already  vanished  with  her 
felon. 

From  the  curve  in  the  track,  the  sight  of  the 
open  blinds  and  the  curtains  at  the  windows  of  the 
little  house  reassured  him ;  and  remembering  his 
emotion  when  he  watched  the  little  light  receding 


238  Sappho, 

behind  him  in  the  darkness,  he  laughed  at  himself 
and  the  fickleness  of  his  impressions.  He  was  no 
longer  the  same  man,  and  certainly  he  should  not 
find  the  same  woman.  And  yet  only  two  months 
had  passed.  The  woods  by  which  the  train  sped 
had  taken  on  no  new  leaves,  retained  the  same 
leprous  blotches  as  on  the  day  of  the  rupture  and 
of  her  shrieking  to  the  echoes. 

He  alighted  alone  at  the  station  in  that  cold, 
penetrating  fog,  took  the  narrow  country  road, 
slippery  with  the  hard  snow,  passed  under  the 
railroad  bridge,  and  met  no  one  before  he  reached 
the  Pave  des  Gardes,  where  a  man  and  boy  ap- 
peared at  the  entrance  to  the  path,  followed  by  a 
railway  porter  pushing  his  truck  laden  with  trunks. 

The  child,  all  muffled  up  in  a  comforter,  his  cap 
pulled  over  his  ears,  restrained  an  exclamation  as 
they  passed  him.  "  Why,  it 's  Josaph  !  "  he  said 
to  himself,  a  little  surprised  and  saddened  by  the 
child's  ingratitude ;  and  as  he  turned  to  look  be- 
hind him,  he  met  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  was 
leading  the  boy  by  the  hand.  That  clever,  intel- 
ligent face,  blanched  by  confinement,  those  second- 
hand clothes  purchased  the  day  before,  that  light 
beard  close  to  the  chin,  not  having  had  time  to 
grow  since  Mazas  —  Flamant, /<a:r^/^w  /  And  Jo- 
saph was  his  son  ! 

It  was  a  revelation  in  a  flash  of  lightning.  He 
saw  and  understood  everything,  from  the  letter  in 
the  casket  wherein  the  handsome  engraver  com- 
mended to  his  mistress's  care  a  child  of  his  in  the 
provinces,  down  to  the  little  fellow's  mysterious 


Sappho.  239 

arrival  and  Hettema's  embarrassed  manner  at  any 
mention  of  the  adoption,  and  Fanny's  significant 
glances  at  Olympe ;  for  they  were  all  in  the  plot 
to  make  him  support  the  counterfeiter's  son.  Oh, 
what  a  jolly  simpleton  he  was,  and  how  they  must 
have  laughed  at  him !  He  felt  a  shudder  of  dis- 
gust with  all  that  shameful  past,  a  longing  to  leave 
it  far,  far  behind  him ;  but  certain  things  disturbed 
him,  which  he  wished  to  have  cleared  up.  The 
man  and  the  child  had  gone,  why  not  she?  And 
then  his  letters,  he  must  have  his  letters,  and  leave 
nothing  of  his  in  that  den  of  contamination  and 
misery. 

"  Madame  !     Here  is  monsieur !  " 

"What  monsieur?"  artlessly  inquired  a  voice 
from  the  bedroom. 

"  It  is  I." 

He  heard  a  little  shriek,  a  hurried  movement, 
then,    "  Wait,  I  am  getting  up ;    I   am   coming." 

Still  in  bed,  after  twelve  o'clock  !  Jean  shrewdly 
suspected  the  reason ;  and  while  he  awaited  her 
coming  in  the  living-room,  where  the  slightest  ob- 
jects were  familiar  to  him,  the  whistle  of  a  locomo- 
tive, the  quivering  bleat  of  a  goat  in  a  neighboring 
garden,  the  scattered  dishes  on  the  table  carried 
him  back  to  the  mornings  of  other  days,  the  hasty 
breakfast  before  he  started  for  Paris. 

Fanny  came  in  and  ran  impulsively  toward  him, 
then  suddenly  checked  herself  in  face  of  his  frigid 
manner;  and  they  stood  for  a  second,  surprised, 
hesitating,  as  if  two  people  should  meet,  after  one 


240  Sappho, 

of  these  shattered  intimacies,  on  opposite  sides  of 
a  broken  bridge,  where  the  banks  are  far  apart, 
and  with  a  vast  expanse  of  turbulent,  all-engulfing 
waves  between. 

"  Good-morning,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  with- 
out moving. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  changed,  grown 
pale.  He  was  amazed  to  find  her  so  youthful, 
simply  a  little  heavier,  not  so  tall  as  he  remem- 
bered her,  but  bathed  in  that  peculiar  radiance, 
that  brilliancy  of  the  complexion  and  the  eyes, 
that  softness  as  of  a  well-kept  lawn  which  followed 
nights  given  over  to  pleasure.  So  the  woman,  the 
memory  of  whom  gnawed  his  heart  with  pity,  had 
remained  in  the  woods,  in  the  ravine  strewn  with 
dead  leaves ! 

"  People  rise  late  in  the  country,"  he  observed 
satirically. 

She  apologized  for  herself,  talked  about  a  sick 
headache,  and,  like  him,  used  the  impersonal  forms 
of  the  verb,  uncertain  how  to  address  him;  then 
she  said,  in  answer  to  the  unspoken  question  con- 
veyed by  a  glance  at  the  remains  of  the  breakfast, 
*'  It  was  the  child  ;  he  breakfasted  here  this  morn- 
ing before  going  away." 

"  Going  away?     Where  has  he  gone,  pray?" 

He  affected  supreme  indifi'erence  with  his  lips, 
but  the  gleam  in  his  eyes  betrayed  him. 

**  The  father  has  reappeared,"  said  Fanny ;  **  he 
came  and  took  him  away." 

"  On  his  discharge  from  Mazas,  eh?" 

She  was  startled,  but  did  not  try  to  lie. 


Sappho,  541 

"  Well,  yes.  I  promised  to  do  it ;  I  did  it.  How 
many  times  I  longed  to  tell  you,  but  I  dared  not ;  I 
was  afraid  that  you  would  turn  him  out,  poor  little 
fellow."  And  she  added  timidly,  "You  were  so 
jealous !  " 

He  laughed  aloud  in  disdain.  He  jealous,  and 
of  that  convict !  Nonsense  !  And  feeling  that 
his  wrath  was  rising,  he  cut  himself  short,  and 
told  her  hurriedly  why  he  had  come.  His  letters  ! 
Why  had  she  not  given  them  to  Cesaire?  That 
would  have  avoided  an  interview  painful  to  them 
both. 

*'  True,"  she  said,  still  very  gently,  "  but  I  will 
give  them  to  you ;   they  are  in  here." 

He  followed  her  into  the  bedroom,  noticed 
the  tumbled  bed,  the  clothes  hastily  thrown  over 
both  pillows,  inhaled  the  odor  of  cigarette  smoke 
mingled  with  the  perfumes  of  a  woman's  toilet, 
which  he  recognized,  as  he  did  the  little  mother- 
of-pearl  casket  on  the  table.  And  as  the  same 
thought  came  to  both  their  minds,  she  said,  open- 
ing the  box :  "  There  are  n't  very  many  of  them ;  we 
should  n't  run  any  risk  by  putting  them  in  the  fire." 

He  said  nothing,  sorely  perturbed,  his  mouth 
parched,  hesitating  to  approach  the  rumpled  bed, 
where  she  was  turning  over  the  letters  for  the  last 
time,  her  head  bent,  the  neck  firm  and  white  be- 
neath the  raised  coils  of  her  hair,  and  her  figure, 
unconfined  in  the  loose  woollen  garment  she  wore, 
yielding  and  flexible  and  somewhat  ampler  than  of 
yore. 

**  There  !     They  are  all  there." 
16 


242  Sappho. 

Having  taken  the  package  and  thrust  it  absently 
into  his  pocket,  for  the  current  of  his  thoughts  had 
changed,  Jean  rejoined, — 

**  So  he  is  taking  his  child  away?  Where  are 
they  going?  " 

*'  To  Morvan,  in  his  province,  to  hide  himself 
and  work  at  his  engraving,  which  he  will  send  to 
Paris  under  a  false  name." 

''And  you?     Do  you  expect  to  remain  here?" 

She  turned  her  eyes  away  to  avoid  his  glance, 
stammering  that  it  would  be  very  dismal.  So  that 
she  thought  —  perhaps  she  might  go  away  soon  — 
a  short  journey. 

"To  Morvan,  of  course?  To  keep  house  for 
him  !  "  Thereupon  he  gave  free  rein  to  his  jeal- 
ous rage :  ''  Why  don't  you  say  at  once  that 
you  're  going  to  join  your  thief,  that  you  're  going 
to  live  with  him?  You've  wanted  to  do  it  long 
enough.  Good !  Go  back  to  your  kennel. 
Strumpet  and  counterfeiter  go  well  together;  I 
was  very  good  to  try  and  drag  you  out  of  that 
mire." 

She  maintained  her  mute  immobility,  a  gleam 
of  triumph  stealing  between  her  lowered  lashes. 
And  the  more  fiercely  he  stung  her  with  his  sav- 
age, insulting  irony,  the  prouder  she  seemed,  and 
the  quiver  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth  became 
more  marked.  Now  he  was  talking  about  his 
happiness,  about  virtuous,  youthful  love,  the  only 
true  love.  Ah  !  what  a  soft  pillow  to  lie  upon  was 
a  virtuous  woman's  heart !  Then,  suddenly  lower- 
ing his  voice,  as  if  he  were  ashamed, — 


Sappho,  243 

"  I  just  met  your  Flamant ;  did  he  pass  the 
night  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  was  late  and  snowing.  I  made  up  a 
bed  for  him  on  the  couch." 

"  You  He  !  he  slept  there ;  one  has  only  to  use 
his  eyes !  " 

**  And  what  then  ?  "  she  put  her  face  close  to 
his,  her  great  gray  eyes  lighted  with  a  lustful  flame. 
**  Did  I  know  that  you  would  come?  And  when  I 
had  lost  you,  what  did  I  care  for  all  the  rest !  I 
was  alone,  depressed,  disgusted." 

"  And  then  the  bouquet  of  the  galleys  !  After 
living  so  long  with  an  honest  man !  How  you 
must  have  revelled  in  his  society !  Ah,  you  filthy 
creature  !  take  this  !  " 

She  saw  the  blow  coming  without  a  movement 
to  avoid  it,  received  it  full  in  the  face,  then,  with 
a  dull  roar  of  pain,  of  joy,  of  victory,  she  leaped 
upon  him  and  threw  her  arms  about  him. 

"  M'ami,  m'ami,  you  love  me  still !  " 

An  express  train  rushing  by  with  a  great  uproar 
aroused  him  with  a  start  toward  evening;  and  he 
lay  for  some  moments  with  his  eyes  open,  unable 
to  identify  himself,  alone  in  the  depths  of  that 
great  bed.  Much  snow  had  fallen  during  the 
afternoon.  In  a  silence  as  profound  as  that  of  the 
desert,  he  could  hear  it  melting,  running  down 
the  walls  and  the  windows,  dripping  in  the  gutters 
on  the  roof,  and,  now  and  then,  sputtering  on  the 
coke  fire  on  the  hearth. 

Where   was  he?     What  was  he  doing  there? 


244  Sappho, 

Gradually,  in  the  light  reflected  from  the  little 
garden,  the  room  appeared  before  him,  all  white, 
lighted  from  below,  with  Fanny's  great  portrait 
hanging  opposite  him;  and  he  recalled  the  cir- 
cumstances of  his  downfall  without  the  slightest 
astonishment.  Immediately  on  entering  that  room, 
standing  by  that  bed,  he  had  felt  that  he  was  re- 
captured, lost ;  old  associations  drew  him  on  Hke 
a  yawning  chasm,  and  he  said  to  himself,  "  If  I 
fall  now,  it  will  be  irrevocably  and  forever."  It 
was  done ;  and  beneath  the  feeling  of  melancholy 
and  disgust  at  his  cowardice,  there  was  a  sort  of 
relief  in  the  thought  that  he  would  never  again 
emerge  from  that  mire,  the  pitiable  satisfaction  of 
the  wounded  man  who,  while  the  blood  gushes 
from  his  wound,  throws  himself  upon  a  dung-hill 
to  die,  and,  weary  of  suffering,  of  struggling,  all 
his  veins  being  open,  buries  himself  blissfully  in 
the  soft  and  fetid  warmth. 

What  remained  for  him  to  do  now  was  ghastly 
but  very  simple.  Could  he  return  to  Irene  after 
such  treachery,  and  run  the  risk  of  a  household  a 
la  de  Potter  ?  Low  as  he  had  fallen,  he  had  not 
yet  reached  that  point.  He  would  write  to  Bou- 
chereau,  the  great  physiologist  who  was  the  first 
to  study  and  describe  diseases  of  the  will,  and  lay 
before  him  a  horrible  case,  the  story  of  his  life 
from  his  first  meeting  with  that  woman,  when  she 
had  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  down  to  the  day 
when,  believing  that  he  was  saved,  in  the  midst  of 
his  happiness,  of  his  intoxicating  bliss,  she  seized 
him  again  by  the  magic  of  the  past,  that  horrible 


Sappho,  245 

past  in  which  love  occupied  so  small  a  place, 
simply  cowardly  habit  and  the  vice  that  had 
entered  into  his  bones. 

The  door  opened.  Fanny  stole  softly  into  the 
room  in  order  not  to  waken  him.  Between  his 
lowered  eyelids  he  watched  her,  active  and  strong, 
rejuvenated,  standing  at  the  fire  warming  her  feet, 
which  were  wet  through  with  the  snow  in  the  gar- 
den, and  from  time  to  time  turning  to  look  at 
him  with  the  little  smile  her  face  had  worn  in  the 
morning  during  the  quarrel.  She  took  the  pack- 
age of  Maryland,  which  was  in  its  usual  place, 
rolled  a  cigarette  and  was  going  out,  but  he  called 
her  back. 

**  Are  n't  you  asleep?  " 

"  No.     Sit  down  here  and  let  us  talk." 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  a  little  surprised 
by  his  gravity. 

"  Fanny,  we  must  go  away." 

She  thought  at  first  that  he  was  joking,  to  test 
her.  But  the  very  precise  details  that  he  gave  her 
soon  undeceived  her.  There  was  a  vacant  post, 
that  at  Arica ;  he  would  ask  for  it.  It  was  a  mat- 
ter of  a  fortnight,  just  time  enough  to  get  their 
trunks  ready. 

"  And  your  marriage?" 

**  Not  another  word  on  that  subject.  What  I 
have  done  is  irreparable.  I  see  plainly  enough 
that  that  is  all  over;  I  cannot  tear  myself  away 
from  you." 

*'  Poor  bebe  !  "  she  said  with  melancholy  gentle- 


246  Sappho, 

ness,  not  unmixed  with  contempt.      Then,    after 

two  or  three  puffs, — 

**  Is  this  place  you  speak  of  very  far  away  ?  " 
"Arica?  very  far,  in  Peru.     Flamant  won't  be 

able  to  join  you  there,"  he  added  in  a  whisper. 
She  sat  thoughtful  and  mysterious  in  her  cloud 

of  tobacco  smoke.     He  still  held  her  hand,  patted 

her  bare  arm,  and,  lulled  by  the  dripping  of  the 

water  all  about  the  house,  he  closed  his  eyes  and 

sank  gently  into  the  mire. 


Sappho*  247 


XV. 


Nervous,  quivering,  with  steam  up,  already 
under  way  in  fancy  like  all  those  who  are  prepar- 
ing for  departure,  Gaussin  has  been  two  days  at 
Marseille,  where  Fanny  is  to  join  him  and  sail  with 
him.  Everything  is  ready,  the  staterooms  taken, 
two  in  the  first  cabin  for  the  vice-consul  at  Arica 
travelHng  with  his  sister-in-law;  and  here  he  is 
pacing  up  and  down  the  worn  floor  of  his  hotel 
chamber,  in  the  twofold  feverish  expectation  of 
his  mistress  and  the  time  for  sailing. 

He  must  needs  walk  and  work  off  his  excitement 
where  he  is,  as  he  dares  not  go  out.  The  street 
embarrasses  him  like  a  criminal,  a  deserter,  —  the 
bustling,  swarming  Marseille  street,  where,  at  every 
corner,  it  seems  to  him  that  his  father  or  old 
Bouchereau  will  appear,  lay  their  hands  on  his 
shoulder,  to  recapture  him  and  take  him  back. 

He  keeps  himself  in  seclusion  and  eats  in  his 
room,  not  even  going  down  to  the  table-d'hote, 
reads  without  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  page,  throws 
himself  on  his  bed,  diverting  his  vague  siestas  with 
the  Shipwreck  of  La  Perouse  and  the  Death  of  Cap- 
tain Cook,  which  adorn  the  wall,  covered  with  fly- 
specks,  and  leans  for  hours  at  a  time  on  the  rotten 
wooden  balcony,  sheltered  by  a  yellow  shade  as 
profusely  patched  as  the  sail  of  a  fishing  boat. 


248  Sappho. 

His  hotel,  the  "  Hotel  du  Jeune  Anacharsis,"  — 
the  name,  which  he  chanced  to  see  in  Le  Bottin, 
tempted  him  when  he  appointed  a  rendezvous  with 
Fanny,  —  was  an  old  inn,  by  no  means  luxurious, 
not  even  very  clean,  but  looking  on  the  harbor 
with  an  odor  of  the  sea  and  of  travel.  Under  his 
windows,  parrots,  cockatoos,  canaries,  with  their 
sweet  interminable  chirping,  the  whole  open-air 
display  of  a  dealer  in  birds,  whose  cages,  piled  one 
upon  another,  salute  the  dawn  with  the  murmurs 
of  a  virgin  forest,  overshadowed  and  drowned 
as  the  day  advances  by  the  noisy  labors  of  the 
port,  regulated  by  the  great  bell  of  Notre-Dame  de 
la  Garde. 

There  is  a  confusion  of  oaths  in  all  tongues,  of 
the  cries  of  boatmen  and  porters  and  dealers  in 
shells,  between  the  blows  of  the  hammer  in  the 
refitting  docks,  the  groaning  of  the  cranes,  the 
sonorous  blows  of  the  arms  of  the  great  levers  on 
the  pavement,  ship's  bells,  whistles,  the  rhythmic 
music  of  pumps  and  capstans,  water  pouring  from 
holes,  escaping  steam,  —  all  this  uproar,  increased 
twofold  and  repeated  by  the  echoing  surface  of 
the  sea  near  at  hand,  from  which  at  intervals  arises 
the  hoarse  roar,  the  marine  monster's  breath  of  a 
great  transatlantic  liner  steaming  out  to  sea. 

And  the  odors,  too,  evoke  distant  countries, 
wharves  on  which  the  sun  beats  down  more 
fiercely  than  on  this ;  the  cargoes  of  sandal-wood 
and  logwood  being  discharged,  the  lemons,  oranges, 
pistachio  nuts,  figs,  whose  penetrating  odor  ascends 
in  clouds  of  exotic  dust  in  an  atmosphere  saturated 


Sappho,  249 

with  brackish  water,  burned  herbs,  and  the  greasy 
smoke  of  the  Cookhouses. 

At  nightfall  these  noises  diminish,  these  dense 
substances  in  the  air  fall  to  the  ground  and  evap- 
orate ;  and  while  Jean,  reassured  by  the  darkness, 
raises  his  shade  and  looks  down  upon  the  black 
sleeping  harbor,  beneath  the  interlacing  network 
of  masts  and  yards  and  bowsprits,  when  the  silence 
is  broken  only  by  the  splashing  of  an  oar  or  the 
distant  barking  of  a  ship's  dog,  out  at  sea,  far  out 
at  sea,  the  revolving  light  of  Planier  casts  a  long 
red  or  white  flame  which  rends  the  darkness, 
shows  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  shadows  of 
islands,  forts  and  cliffs.  And  that  luminous  glance, 
guiding  myriads  of  lives  over  the  waves,  likewise 
suggests  travel,  invites  him  and  beckons  to  him, 
summons  him  in  the  voice  of  the  wind,  the  long 
swell  of  the  open  sea,  and  the  hoarse  clamor  of  a 
steamboat  always  gasping  and  blowing  somewhere 
in  the  roadstead. 

Twenty-four  hours  more  to  wait ;  Fanny  is  not 
to  join  him  until  Sunday.  Those  three  days  of 
waiting  at  the  rendezvous  he  expected  to  pass  with 
his  family,  to  devote  them  to  the  loved  ones  whom 
he  will  not  see  again  for  several  years,  whom  he 
will  never  see  again,  perhaps ;  but  on  the  evening 
of  his  arrival  at  Castelet,  when  his  father  learned 
that  the  marriage  was  broken  off  and  guessed  the 
reason,  a  violent,  terrible  explanation  had  taken 
place. 

What  manner  of  creatures  are  we,  in  God's  name, 


250  Sappho, 

what  are  our  tenderest  affections,  the  affections 
nearest  our  heart,  that  a  fit  of  passion  between  two 
persons  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  should  twist 
and  tear  out  and  carry  away  the  natural  senti- 
ments, whose  roots  are  so  deep  and  strong,  with  the 
blind  irresistible  violence  of  one  of  those  typhoons 
of  the  China  seas  which  the  bravest  sailors  do  not 
dare  to  remember,  but  say,  with  pallid  cheeks, 
"Let  us  not  talk  about  that." 

He  will  never  talk  about  it,  but  he  will  remember 
all  his  life  that  terrible  scene  on  the  terrace  at 
Castelet  where  his  happy  childhood  was  passed, 
facing  that  placid,  beautiful  landscape,  those  pines, 
those  myrtles,  those  cypresses,  which  stood  quiver- 
ing in  serried  ranks  around  the  paternal  curse. 
He  will  always  have  before  his  eyes  that  tall  old 
man,  with  his  trembling,  convulsed  features,  strid- 
ing toward  him  with  that  expression  of  hatred 
about  his  mouth,  with  that  look  of  hatred  in  his 
eyes,  uttering  the  words  one  does  not  forgive, 
driving  him  from  the  house  and  from  the  ranks  of 
men  of  honor :  **  Begone  !  go  with  your  harlot ; 
you  are  dead  to  us !  "  And  the  little  twins,  cry- 
ing and  dragging  themselves  on  their  knees  to  the 
door,  imploring  forgiveness  for  the  big  brother, 
and  Divonne's  pale  face,  without  a  glance,  without 
a  farewell  word,  while,  at  the  window  above,  the 
invalid's  sweet,  anxious  face  asked  the  explanation 
of  all  that  noise,  and  why  her  Jean  went  away  so 
hurriedly  and  without  kissing  her. 

The  thought  that  he  had  not  kissed  his  mother 
made  him  turn  back  half-way  to  Avignon ;  he  left 


Sappho,  251 

Cesaire  with  the  carriage  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
farm,  took  the  cross-road,  and  entered  Castelet  by 
the  vineyard  like  a  thief  It  was  a  dark  night ;  his 
feet  sank  in  the  dead  vines,  and  he  actually  ended 
by  being  unable  to  tell  where  he  was,  seeking  his 
house  in  the  darkness,  already  a  stranger  at  home. 
The  vague  reflection  of  the  rough-cast  walls  guided 
him  at  last;  but  the  door  was  fastened,  and  there 
was  no  light  in  any  window.  Should  he  ring  or 
call?  He  dared  not,  through  fear  of  his  father. 
He  walked  around  the  house  two  or  three  times, 
hoping  to  make  his  way  in  through  some  insecurely 
fastened  shutter.  But  Divonne's  lantern  had  gone 
the  rounds,  as  it  did  every  evening ;  and  after  gaz- 
ing long  at  his  mother's  chamber  and  bidding  fare- 
well with  all  his  heart  to  the  home  of  his  childhood, 
which,  too,  repulsed  him,  he  fled  at  last  in  despair, 
with  a  burden  of  remorse  which  gave  him  no 
rest. 

Ordinarily,  when  young  men  set  out  for  a  pro- 
longed absence,  on  voyages  subject  to  the  danger- 
ous hazards  of  the  sea  and  the  wind,  their  relatives 
and  friends  prolong  their  leave-takings  until  the 
final  embarkation ;  they  pass  the  last  day  together, 
they  inspect  the  boat  and  the  traveller's  stateroom, 
in  order  to  follow  him  the  better  on  his  journey. 
Several  times  each  day  Jean  sees  such  affectionate 
escorts  pass  his  hotel,  sometimes  numerous  and 
noisy;  but  he  is  especially  touched  by  a  family 
party  on  the  floor  below  his.  An  old  man  and  an 
old  woman,  country  people  in  comfortable  circum- 


252  Sappho, 

stances,  in  broadcloth  coat  and  yellow  Cambral 
linen  dress,  have  come  to  see  their  son  off,  to  be 
with  him  until  the  saihng  of  the  packet;  and  he 
can  see  them,  all  three,  leaning  out  of  their  window, 
idling  away  the  hours  of  waiting,  holding  one 
another's  arms,  the  sailor  in  the  middle,  very  close 
together.     They  do  not  speak ;  they  embrace. 

As  Jean  watches  them,  he  thinks  what  a  happy 
departure  he  might  have  had.  His  father,  his  little 
sisters,  and,  resting  her  soft  trembling  hand  on  his 
arm,  she  whose  eager  mind  and  adventurous  soul 
all  the  white  sails  in  the  offing  would  irresisti- 
bly attract.  Vain  regrets !  The  crime  is  consum- 
mated ;  his  destiny  is  on  the  rails ;  he  has  only  to 
go  away  and  to  forget. 

How  slow  and  cruel  the  hours  of  the  last  night 
seemed  to  him !  He  tossed  and  turned  in  his  hard 
hotel  bed,  watched  for  the  daylight  to  appear  on 
the  windows,  with  the  gradual  shading  from  black 
to  gray,  followed  by  the  whiteness  of  dawn,  which 
the  lighthouse  still  punctured  with  a  red  spark, 
soon  extinguished  by  the  rising  sun. 

Not  until  then  did  he  fall  asleep ;  and  he  was 
abruptly  awakened  by  a  flood  of  light  streaming 
into  his  room,  by  the  confused  cries  from  the  bird- 
dealer's  cages  blending  with  the  innumerable  chimes 
of  Sunday  in  Marseille,  echoing  over  the  empty 
wharves,  where  all  the  engines  are  at  rest  and  flags 
flying  at  the  mastheads.  Ten  o'clock  already  !  and 
the  express  from  Paris  arrives  at  noon.  He  dresses 
in  haste  to  go  and  meet  his  mistress;  they  will 
breakfast  looking  out  upon  the  sea,  then  they  will 


Sappho,  153 

carry  the  luggage  on  board,  and  at  five  o'clock  the 
signal  for  departure. 

A  wonderfully  lovely  day,  a  deep  blue  sky  with 
sea-gulls  flying  hither  and  thither  like  white  specks, 
the  sea  of  a  still  deeper,  mineral  blue,  whereon 
sails,  smoke,  everything  is  visible,  —  everything 
glistens  and  dances;  and,  like  the  natural  out- 
pouring of  those  sunlit  banks  encompassed  by 
the  transparent  atmosphere  and  water,  harps  are 
playing  beneath  the  hotel  windows,  an  Italian  air, 
divinely  sweet,  but  with  a  dragging  movement  of 
the  fingers  across  the  chords  that  excites  the  nerves 
painfully.  It  is  more  than  music,  it  is  a  winged 
translation  of  the  joyous  humor  of  the  South,  the 
plenitude  of  life  and  love  swollen  even  to  tears. 
And  the  memory  of  Irene  steals  into  the  melody, 
quivering  and  weeping.  How  far  away  it  is ! 
What  a  fair,  lost  country,  what  never-ending  regret 
for  opportunities  vanished  beyond  recall ! 

Let  us  be  off! 

On  the  threshold,  as  he  is  going  out,  Jean  meets 
a  waiter:  "A  letter  for  Monsieur  le  Consul.  It 
arrived  this  morning,  but  Monsieur  le  Consul  was 
so  sound  asleep  !  "  Travellers  of  distinction  are 
rare  at  the  Hotel  du  Jeune  Anacharsis,  so  the 
worthy  Marseillais  parade  the  title  of  their  guest  at 
every  opportunity.  Who  can  have  written  to  him  ? 
No  one  knows  his  address  except  Fanny.  And  as 
he  looks  more  closely  at  the  envelope,  he  shud- 
ders, he  understands. 

**  No,  I  will  not  go !  it  is  too  great  a  piece  of 


^54  Sappho, 

folly,  to  which  I  do  not  feel  equal.  For  such 
undertakings,  my  poor  fellow,  one  must  have  youth, 
which  I  no  longer  have,  or  a  blind,  mad  passion, 
which  neither  of  us  has.  Five  years  ago,  in  the 
happy  days,  at  a  sign  from  you,  I  would  have  fol- 
lowed you  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  for  you  cannot 
deny  that  I  loved  you  passionately.  I  gave  you 
all  I  had ;  and  when  it  was  necessary  to  tear  my- 
self away  from  you  I  suffered  as  I  never  suffered 
for  any  man.  But  such  a  love  exhausts  one,  you 
see.  To  feel  that  you  were  so  handsome,  so  young, 
to  be  always  trembling  because  of  having  so  many 
things  to  defend !  Now  I  can  do  no  more ;  you 
have  made  my  life  too  hard,  have  made  me  suffer 
too  much,  and  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  strength. 

*'  Under  these  conditions  the  prospect  of  that 
long  journey,  of  changing  my  whole  Hfe,  terrifies 
me.  Just  think  how  fond  I  am  of  keeping  still, 
and  that  I  have  never  been  farther  than  Saint-Ger- 
main !  And  then  women  grow  old  too  quickly  in 
the  sun,  and  before  you  are  thirty  I  shall  be  as 
yellow  and  wrinkled  as  Mamma  Pilar ;  then  is  the 
time  that  you  would  be  angry  with  me  for  your 
sacrifice,  and  poor  Fanny  would  pay  for  everybody 
else's  sins.  Do  you  know,  there  is  a  country  in  the 
East  —  I  read  about  it  in  one  of  your  numbers  of 
Le  Tour  du  Monde  —  where,  when  a  woman  de- 
ceives her  husband,  they  fasten  her  alive  to  a  cat 
and  put  them  in  the  reeking  skin  of  a  beast  just 
flayed,  then  toss  the  bag  on  the  beach,  howling 
and  plunging  about  in  the  hot  sun.  The  woman 
screeches,  the  cat  scratches,  while  the  skin  dries 


Sappho,  255 

up  and  contracts  around  that  horrible  struggle  be- 
tween prisoners,  until  the  last  death-rattle,  the  last 
convulsive  movement  of  the  bag.  That  is  the  sort 
of  torture  that  would  be  in  store  for  us  if  we  were 
together." 

He  paused  a  moment,  crushed,  stupefied.  As  far 
as  he  could  see,  the  blue  waves  sparkled  in  the  sun. 
Addio !  sang  the  harps,  reinforced  by  a  voice  as 
ardent  and  passionate  as  they.  Addio  !  And  the 
utter  nothingness  of  his  shipwrecked,  ruined  life, 
all  debris  and  tears,  appeared  before  him,  the  field 
mown,  the  crops  harvested  beyond  recall,  and 
all  for  that  woman  who  was  slipping  from  his 
grasp  ! 

'*  I  ought  to  have  told  you  this  sooner,  but  I 
dared  not,  seeing  that  you  were  so  worked  up,  so 
determined.  Your  excitement  influenced  me ;  and 
then  my  woman's  vanity,  my  very  natural  pride  in 
having  won  you  back  after  the  rupture.  But,  deep 
down  in  my  heart,  I  felt  that  I  was  no  longer 
equal  to  it,  that  something  had  broken  and  it  was 
all  over.  What  can  you  expect?  after  such  par- 
oxysms !  And  do  not  imagine  that  it  is  on  account 
of  poor  Flamant.  For  him,  as  for  you  and  every- 
body else,  it  is  all  over,  my  heart  is  dead;  but 
there  is  that  child,  whom  I  cannot  do  without,  and 
who  leads  me  back  to  his  father,  poor  man,  who 
ruined  himself  for  love  of  me,  and  came  back  to 
me  from  Mazas  as  ardent  and  loving  as  at  our  first 
meeting.     Just  fancy  that  when  we  met  again,  he 


256  Sappho. 

passed  the  whole  night  weeping  on  my  shoulder ; 
so  you  see  there  was  no  reason  for  you  to  lose 
your  head  about  him. 

"  As  I  have  told  you,  my  dear  child,  I  have 
loved  too  much ;  I  am  worn  out.  At  the  present 
time,  I  need  to  have  some  one  love  me,  coddle  me, 
admire  me,  and  rock  me  to  sleep.  Flamant  will  be 
at  my  feet  and  will  never  see  any  wrinkles  or  gray 
hairs ;  and  if  he  marries  me,  as  he  intends  to  do,  I 
shall  be  doing  him  a  favor.  Compare.  Above  all 
things,  no  nonsense.  I  have  taken  precautions  to 
prevent  your  finding  me.  From  the  little  railway 
cafe  where  I  am  writing  to  you,  I  can  see  through 
the  trees  the  house  where  we  passed  such  happy 
and  such  painful  moments,  and  the  sign  flapping 
against  the  door,  awaiting  new  tenants.  You  are 
free ;  you  will  never  hear  of  me  again.  Adieu ! 
one  kiss,  the  last,  in  your  neck  —  m'amiy 


BETWEEN    THE   FLIES   AND   THE 
FOOTLIGHTS. 

BRIEF  STUDIES  OF  THEATRICAL  LIFE. 


To  Jules  Ebner:^ — 

As  a  good  captain  should  always  have  on  board,  in  case 
of  disaster,  and  to  facilitate  the  saving  of  lives,  a  miscellane- 
ous collection  of  small  boats,  skiffs,  gigs,  launches,  and 
whaleboats,  so  the  author  who  publishes  his  work  in  the 
greatest  possible  variety  of  forms  seems  to  me  the  most 
certain  to  escape  absolute  shipwreck.  This  explains  the 
diversity  of  my  editions. 

In  any  event,  my  dear  Ebner,  if  my  name  survives  by 
clinging  to  one  of  my  boats,  large  or  small,  it  is  impossible 
that  yours  should  not  be  saved  by  the  same  means.  For 
we  have  been  sailing  together  twenty-four  years,  since  the 
war  and  the  siege.  And  such  certificates  of  service,  entirely 
unconnected  with  professional  collaboration  and  altogether 
outside  of  literature,  are  of  the  sort  which  nothing  can  re- 
quite unless  it  be  a  tender  and  enduring  friendship. 

ALPHONSE   DAUDET. 
Paris,  January  i6, 1894. 

1  Monsieur  Daudet's  secretary. 


BETWEEN   THE    FLIES   AND 
THE   FOOTLIGHTS. 


THE  ACTOR  AT  WORK. 

There  is  no  question  that  actors  who  really 
work  are  very  rare;  so  it  is  that  there  are  very 
few  good  ones.  As  a  general  rule,  a  beginner 
begins  by  displaying  too  great  zeal ;  but  he  falls  off 
as  soon  as  he  thinks  that  he  has  earned  his  place 
in  the  sunshine,  as  if  it  were  not  a  hundred  times 
more  difficult  to  keep  it  and  defend  it  than  to 
win  it. 

How  many  actors  we  have  known,  who,  when 
the  rehearsal  is  done,  stuff  their  roles  into  their 
pockets  and  take  a  sort  of  pride  in  not  touching 
them  again,  in  not  even  thinking  about  them, 
when  they  are  once  outside  the  theatre!  They 
learn  the  play  by  rehearsing  it  and  keep  the  manu- 
script in  their  hands  at  rehearsal  until  the  very 
eve  of  the  performance. 

Others,  on  the  contrary,  who  are  blessed  with  a 
quick  memory,  rehearse  without  manuscript  after 
the  second  day,  and,  being  firmly  convinced  that 
learning  a/ole  by  heart  is  equivalent  to  knowing 


262     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

it,  they  no  longer  concern  themselves  with  aught 
but  their  wigs  and  costumes.  Oh,  the  costume! 
that  is  the  great,  often  the  only  preoccupation. 

One  of  our  friends,  a  poet,  was  reading  a  very 
exciting  drama  one  day  to  a  jeime  premier  named 
Delessart,  who  was  to  create  a  leading  rdle  therein. 
Our  poet  was  enchanted  with  the  effect  produced  by 
the  reading.  Tho,  jeune  premier  seemed  attentive 
and  affected ;  indeed,  once  or  twice  he  had  gone 
through  the  motion  of  wiping  away  with  his  glove, 
according  to  rule,  a  great  tear  that  had  lodged  in 
the  corner  of  his  eye.  When  the  play  was  fin- 
ished, he  raised  his  head,  which  he  had  kept  lowered 
all  the  time  as  if  to  concentrate  all  his  faculties 
in  his  hearing,  and  these  were  his  first  words : 

"How  do  you  want  me  to  dress  for  this  part.? 
Shall  I  wear  gaiters?  " 

Throughout  the  whole  reading  he  had  been 
thinking  of  nothing  but  that,  —  whether  the  part 
could  or  could  not  be  acted  in  gaiters. 

Oh,  unquestionably  a  fine  pair  of  yellow 
leather  gaiters,  reaching  well  to  the  knee  and 
shaped  to  the  leg,  produce  an  irresistible  effect; 
but  it  is  also  of  some  importance  to  study  the 
physiognomy,  the  mental  qualities,  the  whole 
conception  of  the  character,  and  one  should  not 
carry  too  far  the  taste  for  the  picturesque  and  for 
finery.  But  most  of  our  younger  comedians  do 
just  that;  they  all  "imagine  themselves  in 
gaiters,"  and  that  is  what  stands  out  most  clear 
and  distinct  in  their  way  of  understanding  a  role 
and  studying  it. 


The  Actor  at  Work,  263 

If  some  actors  do  not  work,  there  are  others 
who,  on  the  contrary,  take  a  vast  amount  of 
trouble,  and,  when  they  have  a  part  to  create, 
think  of  it  day  and  night,  at  the  theatre,  at  home, 
in  the  street,  borrowing  from  real  life  all  that  it 
can  furnish  them  to  assist  in  building  up  their 
conception  of  the  part.  Even  when  they  have  no 
part  to  create,  these  actors  are  always  investi- 
gating, studying;  their  art  is  their  fixed  idea. 

"  Since  I  have  been  on  the  stage,"  said  Madame 
Arnould-Plessy  one  day  in  our  presence,  "I  do 
not  remember  that  I  have  ever  passed  a  morning 
without  working."  And  we  certainly  realized  it 
when  we  saw  that  excellent  actress  carry,  with 
the  same  ease  of  manner,  the  same  accuracy  of 
observation,  C^limene's  fan  and  Nany's  huge 
head-dress.  Let  us  remark  in  passing  that  at  the 
Th^dtre-Francais,  where  pensionnaires  and  soci^- 
taires^  alike  are  sometimes  omitted  from  the  cast 
for  a  long  while,  if  the  artists  thus  situated  were 
to  cease  work  until  they  have  a  new  part  to  create, 
or  even  an  old  one  to  resume,  they  would  be  in 
great  danger  of  growing  rusty.  One  grows  rusty 
so  quickly  in  that  profession.  The  action  be- 
comes heavy,  the  voice  thickens,  the  memory 
wavers,  the  legs  are  no  longer  reliable. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  actor  who  has  been  a 
long  time  off  the  boards  as  with  the  writer  who 
has  passed  months  without  writing.     Which  of  us 

1  At  the  Theatre-Frangais,  the  sociitaires  are  those  members 
of  the  company  who  share  in  the  profits ;  the  pensionnaires ,  those 
who  receive  a  fixed  salary. 


264     Between  the  Files  and  the  Footlights. 

has  not  known  the  horrible  torture  of  feeling  that 
his  hand  is  numb,  as  if  frozen,  while  the  brain  is 
boiling,  smoking  with  ideas  which  would  fain 
come  forth?  And  that  terrible  first  sentence 
which  one  can  never  make  up  one's  mind  to  write ! 

It  is  as  if,  by  dint  of  remaining  too  long  asleep 
and  lying  on  the  table,  the  pen  has  become  heavy 
to  the  point  of  refusing  to  perform  any  service. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  disagreeable  sensations  one 
can  feel,  and  it  exists  in  all  the  arts. 

The  actor  must  work,  therefore,  but  he  must 
not  work  too  much.  There  is  another  reef  to 
avoid.  There  are  the  subtle  creatures  who  delight 
in  abstractions,  those  who  spend  too  much  time 
seeking  to  read  between  the  lines,  and  end  by 
going  astray  there;  those  who,  by  dint  of  explor- 
ing and  hollowing  out  a  role,  pierce  it  through 
and  through,  come  out  on  the  other  side,  and  never 
recover  themselves  at  all.  They  are  the  actors 
who  say  to  you  with  the  utmost  gravity,  "  Moliere 
is  not  understood ! "  And,  strong  in  that  idea, 
they  pass  their  lives  construing  Moliere,  com- 
menting on  him,  complicating  him,  discovering 
in  him  all  sorts  of  intentions  which  he  never  had. 
To  hear  them,  you  would  swear  that  Le  Misan- 
thrope was  written  in  Chinese,  in  some  mysterious, 
hermetically  sealed  tongue  of  which  they  alone 
have  the  key.  And  they  act  him  as  they  talk 
about  him,  with  a  multitude  of  subtleties  and 
refinements  which  the  public  utterly  fails  to 
understand,  which  it  does  not  even  suspect.  It 
reminds  one  of  the   story  of   the  Tyrolean   who 


The  Actor  at  Work,  265 

played  on  the  jew's-harp,  and  had  acquired  the 
art  of  extracting  marvellously  harmonious  strains 
from  the  little  piece  of  steel  which  he  held  be- 
tween his  teeth.  A  great  artist,  it  was  said; 
unfortunately  no  one  but  himself  could  hear  what 
he  was  playing. 

And  now  that  we  have  drawn  the  line  between 
actors  who  work,  those  who  do  not  work,  and 
those  who  work  too  much,  let  us  give  our  exclu- 
sive attention  to  the  first  class,  and  see  what  their 
different  methods  of  work  are.  These  methods 
vary  according  to  the  temperament  of  the  artists 
and  the  nature  of  the  parts  they  play.  If,  for 
example,  some  evening  during  the  season  of  the 
regular  repertory,  you  enter  Constant  Coquelin's 
dressing-room^  during  the  entr'acte,  you  will  find 
it  overflowing  with  bustle  and  activity  and  light. 
Mascarillo  is  there,  swaggering  and  uproarious, 
as  on  the  stage.  He  goes  in  and  out,  gesticulates, 
laughs  his  hearty  laugh  with  his  mouth  immeasur- 
ably wide  open,  makes  the  windows  tremble  with 
his  Saxony-trumpet  voice.  Short  cloaks  lined 
with  white  satin,  silk  breeches  with  broad  blue 
or  red  stripes,  pumps  adorned  with  knots  and 
ribbons,  are  lying  on  chairs  all  about  him.  Talk- 
ing all  the  while,  Mascarillo  tries  on  a  wig, 
touches  up  his  rouge  before  a  mirror,  then  turns 
with  a  pirouette  and  consults  as  to  his  new  cap  a 
whole  battalion  of  young  painters  by  whom  he  is 
always  surrounded. 

Seeing  him  leap  and  whirl  about,  like  a  squirrel 

*  He  was  at  the  Theatre-Fran5ais  at  this  time. 


266     Betwee7i  the  Flies  a7id  the  Footlights. 

in  its  cage,  you  feel  that  the  actor  wishes  to  keep 
his  energy  alight  from  the  beginning  of  the 
evening  to  the  end,  to  remain  at  the  same  pitch 
of  mischievous,  rollicking  gayety.  From  time 
to  time  some  one  knocks,  or,  rather,  scratches  at 
the  door,  to  use  Saint-Simon's  expression.  It  is 
Tradition,  come  to  visit  the  actor  in  the  guise  of 
an  old  subscriber  to  the  Comedie-Frangaise, 
shaved  and  wrinkled  and  with  a  cunning  smile. 
He  has  seen  the  elder  Montrose  play  this  same 
part  of  Mascarillo. 

"Well,  monsieur,  are  you  satisfied .?  "  Coquelin 
asks  him. 

"Very  well  satisfied,"  replies  the  old  sub- 
scriber, who  lacks  only  a  little  powdered  pigtail 
dancing  on  the  back  of  his  neck.  "Very  well 
satisfied.  But  Monsieur  Montrose  phe  did  n't 
say  it  as  you  do." 

"Indeed!  tell  us  how  he  said  it." 

Thereupon  the  discussion  begins,  waxes  warm, 
passes  from  one  subject  to  another;  they  talk  of 
literature,  politics,  painting,  especially  painting. 
Coquelin  alone  makes  more  noise  than  all  his 
painters  together :  he  grows  excited,  angry,  roars 
with  laughter;  and  when  the  stage-manager 
shouts,  "  Ready  for  the  third  act !  "  you  hear  that 
loud,  youthful  laugh  ringing  out  along  the  corri- 
dors, down  the  stairs,  and  even  in  the  wings. 
"Your  cue,  Coquelin  !  "  some  one  calls  to  him  as 
soon  as  he  arrives,  and,  sure  of  himself  and  of  his 
imperturbable  memory,  the  actor  rushes  on  the 
stage  as  if  he  proposed  to  take  it  by  assault. 


The  Actor  at  Work  267 

Why  should  he  not  be  sure  of  himself? 
Throughout  the  whole  entr'acte,  without  seeming 
to  do  so,  he  has  thought  constantly  of  his  role, 
indeed,  he  has  hardly  ceased  to  act  it. 

If,  on  leaving  Coquelin's  dressing-room,  you 
enter  Monsieur  Delaunay's,  you  will  almost  always 
find  that  artist  alone,  seated  in  front  of  his  mirror, 
his  Moliere  lying  open  beside  him  on  the  mar- 
ble top  of  his  dressing-table.  The  gas  is  turned 
low  in  order  not  to  tire  the  actor's  eyes,  and  he, 
while  "making  up  his  head"  with  painstaking 
care,  reviews  his  part,  meditates  his  effects,  and 
sits  there,  thoughtful  and  excited,  as  if  he  were 
acting  for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  From  this 
musing,  from  this  quasi-religious  meditation,  will 
result  the  outbursts  of  genuine  passion,  the 
admirably  modulated  exclamations,  which  seem 
to  be  improvised,  born  of  the  situation  of  the 
moment,  whereas  they  are  the  fruit  of  study  and 
reflection.  Is  it  not  enough  to  have  seen  these 
two  actors  in  their  dressing-rooms  to  realize  that 
they  arrive  at  the  same  goal  by  different  paths, 
and  that  their  methods  of  work  resemble  each 
other  no  more  than  their  natures  1 

We  have  before  us  a  very  interesting  and  valu- 
able letter  of  Mademoiselle  Fargeuil,  wherein  the 
great  actress  analyzes  subtly,  with  the  precision 
and  firm  touch  of  a  practised  writer,  the  way  in 
which  she  goes  about  the  study  of  her  parts. 

"From  the  day  when  the  role  is  assigned  to 
me,"  says  the  artist,  "we  live  together.  I  might 
add  that  it  takes  possession  of  me,  lives  in  me. 


268     Between  the  Flies  aiid  the  Footlights. 

It  certainly  takes  from  me  more  than  I  give  it. 
So  it  happens  that  I  assume,  at  home  and  else- 
where, the  tone,  the  physiognomy,  the  general 
character,  which  I  propose  to  give  to  the  part; 
and  I  do  it  unconsciously.  Impressionable  as  I 
am  under  such  circumstances,  I  could  not  be  in 
a  merry  mood,  being  at  odds  with  a  pitiful  and 
redoubtable  me,  who  forces  herself  on  my  mind, 
any  more  than  my  black  mood  resists  that  other 
me,  who  jests  and  laughs  uproariously  in  my  ear. 
That  is  how  it  is.  Have  I  made  myself  under- 
stood }  That  is  the  whole  secret  of  my  work.  I 
think  and  live  the  r61e ;  it  has  been  lived  through 
when  I  hand  it  over  to  the  public.  That  is  very 
simple,  is  it  not.?  it  is  neither  a  method  nor  a 
fixed  plan  of  study.  It  is  simply  a  way  of  living. 
There  is  no  other  rule  about  it  than  that  contained 
in  my  observation:  to  watch  my  duality  walk 
before  me,  to  watch  it  move  and  act,  and  to  think 
it  out.  The  picture  moves,  and  I  change  my  con- 
ception according  to  the  impression  it  gives  me. 
Later,  the  public  teaches  me  what  passages  I  must 
emphasize  or  slight.  I  do  not  know  if  this  con- 
ception of  work  is  the  best  possible  one;  but  I 
cannot  adopt  any  other.  To  study  a  partial  effect 
of  voice,  of  feature,  of  gesture,  seems  to  me  an 
unnatural  effort.  Study,  as  it  is  generally  under- 
stood on  the  stage,  is  not  my  system  of  study, 
therefore." 

The  expression  living  the  part,  which  Mademoi- 
selle Fargeuil  uses  to  define  her  method  of  work, 
occurs  in  a  letter  which  an  artist  of  very  great 


The  Actor  at  Work.  269 

talent,  Monsieur  Lafontaine,  addressed  to  Figaro 
several  years  ago. 

"  I  have  not  declined  the  honor  of  playing  Mont- 
joye,"  he  wrote.  "I  have  asked  for  two  months, 
in  order  to  become  as  perfect  as  possible  in  so 
important  a  part ;  for  one  must  not  simply  learn 
Montjoye,  one  must  live  him." 

And  that  is,  in  very  truth,  a  most  excellent 
system  of  study,  when  the  r61e  is  that  of  a  char- 
acter taken  from  modern  life,  one  of  those  com- 
plex types,  compounded  of  baseness  and  grandeur, 
whom  the  nervous,  feverish  epoch  in  which  we 
live  envelops  as  with  a  stormy  atmosphere. 

But  of  course  this  system  would  not  be  a  suit- 
able one  to  adopt  in  the  case  of  a  personage  of  the 
repertory  of  the  olden  time.  Mademoiselle  Far- 
geuil  is  the  first  to  recognize  that  fact,  and  this 
is  what  she  adds,  in  the  letter  from  which  we 
quoted  a  moment  ago: 

"  If  I  had  the  honor  to  belong  to  the  Th^atre- 
Frangais,  I  should  not  have  adopted  this  method. 
I  know  how  much  study  and  effort  one  must  put 
forth  to  interpret  worthily  our  great  classics. 
But  it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  the  modern  reper- 
tory demands  the  same  care,  I  mean  the  same 
amount  of  reflection  based  on  observation." 

This,  too,  is  very  sensible.  An  actor  certainly 
requires  less  study  to  represent  faces  of  his  own 
time,  which  live  in  the  same  atmosphere  with 
him  and  for  which  the  street  furnishes  him 
with  models,  than  to  revive  the  types  of  a 
glorious  age,  already  long  past,   with  which  he 


2^0    Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 

is  connected  only  by  the  threads  of  tradition, 
stretched  more  and  more  and  growing  weaker 
day  by  day. 

The  passions  are  everlasting,  doubtless,  but 
their  expression  undergoes  modifications;  and  it 
is  a  mistake  to  think  that  the  works  of  the  past 
can  be  played  in  the  modern  style.  The  mere  idea 
is  offensive,  as  involving  an  anachronism.  It 
seems  to  us,  however,  that  if  Mademoiselle  Far- 
geuil  had  had,  as  she  says,  the  honor  to  belong  to 
the  Theatre-Francais,  she  would  have  taken  her 
place  in  the  front  rank  there,  even  in  the  classic 
repertory.  At  the  outset  she  would  have  had, 
against  her  the  feverishness  of  gesture  and  dic- 
tion, the  little  exclamations,  ^^  voyons !  voyons  !'* 
with  which  she  was  accustomed  to  work  herself 
into  a  passion ;  but  do  you  not  think  that  an  artist 
of  her  merit,  who  speaks  of  her  art  so  sensibly 
and  so  conscientiously,  would  easily  have  rid  her- 
self of  tricks  contracted  in  familiar  modern  dia- 
logue, in  Monsieur  Sardou's  unfinished  sentences 
and  little  exclamations.-*  And  then,  when  the 
ground  was  once  cleared,  what  intelligence  she 
would  have  brought  to  the  service  of  the  masters, 
what  energy  in  passion,  what  force,  and  what  a 
keen  sense  of  humor!  Would  it  not  have  been 
charming  to  see  her  play  Elm  ire  in  Tartuffe  ?  and 
would  not  the  slight  mannerisms  with  which  she 
handled  her  voice,  with  which  she  "fluted"  it, 
have  lent  an  additional  attraction  to  the  savage 
eloquence  of  Celimene.?  But  the  Theatre- 
Francais  already  had  one  perfect  Celimene,  you 


The  Actor  at  Work,  271 

say?  Very  good;  then  it  would  have  had  two, 
and  nobody  would  have  complained. 

The  public  cannot  be  told  too  often  or  too  ear- 
nestly that  there  is  a  vast  amount  of  effort,  of 
hidden  toil,  in  this  profession  of  acting,  which 
seems  so  joyous  and  so  easily  mastered.  Nor  can 
we  sufficiently  caution  the  young  people  who  take 
to  the  stage,  and  warn  them  of  the  difficulty  of 
the  calling.  Many  become  actors  for  the  sake  of 
the  costume,  through  vanity  or  indolence,  or  long- 
ing to  make  a  show,  or  inability  to  determine 
what  to  do ;  and  you  should  see  them  before  the 
footlights !  —  Unfortunate  youths  who  stutter 
when  they  talk,  who  cannot  walk  straight,  and 
who  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  their  hands 
when  they  take  them  out  of  their  pockets. 

And  the  women !  Speaking  dolls,  who  have 
retained  the  gestures  and  attitude  taught  by  their 
professor,  with  fairy  queens'  voices  from  which  it 
is  impossible  to  extract  a  single  correct  intona- 
tion. There  is  nothing  natural,  youthful,  sponta- 
neous, or  intelligent  about  them. 

Now,  these  are  the  very  actors  who  do  not  work, 
who  are  never  where  they  should  be,  never  ready 
for  their  cue,  and  whom  you  constantly  hear  snick- 
ering in  some  corner  of  the  wings  or  the  green- 
room. It  would  be  well  if  this  race  of  false 
artists  could  be  made  disgusted  with  the  stage; 
and  that  end  might  perhaps  be  attained  by  con- 
vincing them  that,  in  order  to  be  even  a  passable 
actor,  one  must  work  tremendously. 

Are  the  suburban  theatres  a  better  school  for 


272     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

our  actors  than  the  Conservatoire?  It  certainly 
is  beyond  controversy  that  several  of  our  most 
distinguished  artists  come  to  us  from  the  suburbs. 
I  could  cite  many  names  in  addition  to  those  of 
Parade,  Lafontaine,  Bocage,  etc.  Few  persons 
know,  for  instance,  that  Monsieur  Mounet-Sully, 
the  refulgent  Mounet-Sully,  has  more  than  once 
attended  "general  rehearsal"  with  his  colleagues 
in  the  little  omnibus  that  carries  the  Montparnasse 
troupe  between  Saint-Cloud,  Sceaux,  Crenelle, 
and  Rue  de  la  Gaite. 

The  work  that  is  done  in  those  little  theatres  is 
something  prodigious. 

In  less  than  a  week  a  long  play  is  learned, 
mounted,  and  performed ;  it  is  genuine  provincial 
hard  work,  with  the  advantage  that  the  actors 
remain  in  the  atmosphere  of  Paris,  in  the  midst 
of  its  bustle,  and  that  they  are  able  to  study  on 
their  respective  stages  the  greatest  actors  of  the 
time,  whose  example  is  equal  to  the  best  of  les- 
sons; but  how  many  risks  one  runs,  how  many 
deplorable  habits  one  is  likely  to  contract  on 
those  suburban  boards !  The  actor  who  makes  his 
ddbut  there  should  take  counsel  only  of  his  in- 
stinct. He  is  thrown  into  the  water,  and  he  must 
swim  for  his  life. 

It  is  an  over-violent  method;  either  he  is 
drowned  at  once,  or  the  consciousness  of  the 
danger  develops  in  him  unknown  powers  which 
enable  him  to  survive  the  most  terrible  plunges. 

At  the  Conservatoire,  on  the  other  hand,  before 
putting  you  in  the  water,  they  teach  you  the 


The  Actor  at  Work,  273 

theory  of  natation  and  all  its  various  motions. 
But  how  many  come  forth,  who,  to  continue  our 
image,  when  they  are  once  launched  upon  the 
unfamiliar  element,  struggle  for  life  in  accordance 
with  all  the  rules,  and  yet  are  drowned  at  last ! 

To  learn  is  not  enough ;  you  must  feel ;  you 
must  understand.  It  is  the  same  with  all  the 
classical  studies.  One  does  not  really  know 
Latin  on  leaving  school;  the  noblest  lines  of 
Virgil,  even  the  sweet-smelling  couplets  of  the 
Georgics,  have  a  scholastic  side  which  repels  you ; 
the  sentences  still  retain  in  your  mind  the  pencil- 
marks  of  the  wearisome  school  editions.  But  on 
some  day  long  after,  in  the  heart  of  the  country, 
the  poet,  freely  translated  by  nature,  suddenly 
reveals  himself  to  you  in  everything  that  he  de- 
scribes. The  dead  tongue  awakes,  renews  its  life, 
the  bees  of  Aristaeus  fly  about  and  buzz  in  your 
ears  like  golden  balls.  On  that  day  you  know 
Latin. 

On  leaving  the  Conservatoire  you  must  forget 
the  professor's  gestures  and  intonation,  and  try  to 
understand  and  act  for  yourself,  if  you  do  not 
wish  to  remain  a  scholar  all  your  life.  In  any 
event,  it  is  a  severe  discipline  for  the  mind  and 
an  excellent  school  for  defective  pronunciation; 
and  we  firmly  believe  that,  with  an  equal  amount 
of  inclination  to  learn  in  the  pupil,  two  years  at 
a  suburban  theatre  are  not  equal  to  two  years  in  a 
good  class  at  the  Conservatoire,  in  such  a  class  as 
Samson's  was  and  Regnier's  is. 

When  they  have  once  left  the  Conservatoire  and 
18 


i  74     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

have  obtained  an  engagement  somewhere  or  other, 
with  a  salary,  small  or  large,  attached,  our  young 
people  believe  that  they  know  everything,  and 
they  work  no  more.  And  yet  that  is  the  time 
when  serious  studies  should  begin,  —  studies  of 
life  as  well  as  of  the  stage,  close  observation  of 
the  manners,  the  faces,  the  customs,  which  sur- 
round them  and  which  they  are  constantly  called 
upon  to  reproduce;  continual  practice  in  delivery 
and  memory,  and  persistent  reading  by  way  of 
supplement  to  an  education  that  is  almost  always 
defective. 

But  how  many  are  there  who  interest  them- 
selves in  all  this? 

The  choice  of  a  dressmaker  or  a  tailor,  the  cut 
of  a  wig  or  a  pair  of  gaiters,  — those  are  the  in- 
terests which  warm  the  blood  of  our  young  artists 
when  they  are  about  to  create  a  new  role.  They 
fancy  that  they  have  done  everything  when  they 
approach  the  stage  with  a  good  costumer  and  an 
infallible  memory.  Why  should  we  wonder  that 
their  performance  shows  the  effect  of  such  indo- 
lence.? It  costs  more  than  that,  thank  God!  to 
become  a  great  artist.  The  fact  is,  that  debu- 
tants never  exert  their  imaginations  enough. 


Madame  d' Epinays  Dream,        275 


11. 


Seated  at  her  harpsichord  on  a  drowsy  summer 
afternoon,  the  Marquise  d'Epinay  fell  asleep  and 
dreamed  that  she  was  Clairon,  the  great  Clairon 
of  the  Comedie-Francaise.  Theatrical  affairs  and 
theatrical  people  were  a  frequent  subject  of  dis- 
cussion in  the  marchioness's  salon;  indeed, 
Grimm  and  Diderot  had  just  been  there,  discuss- 
ing the  actor's  trade  and  the  qualities  essential 
to  success  therein,  —  Grimm  sedate  and  logical, 
somewhat  slow  of  speech;  Diderot  with  his  out- 
bursts of  enthusiasm,  his  pythoness-like  quiver- 
ing, with  the  fiery  eloquence,  always  ablaze, 
which  he  would  shake  like  a  torch,  and  which 
gave  more  light  than  smoke. 

It  was  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  Madame 
d'fipinay  should  dream  of  the  stage,  and,  above 
all,  that  she  should  dream  of  Clairon,  the 
fashionable  actress,  whose  portrait  was  in  the 
Salon,  whose  name  was  in  all  the  papers,  whose 
fame  filled  and  wearied  the  four  corners  of  the 
earth. 

The  marchioness  was  not  embarrassed  in  her 
new  role:  she  walked  about  her  apartments,  de- 
claimed in  front  of  her  mirror,  drew  her  eyebrows 


276     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 

together  tragically,  waved  her  lovely  arms  in 
curves  like  a  swan's  neck,  in  fact,  was  rehearsing 
her  part  for  the  evening,  and  at  the  same  time 
despatching  several  business  letters  and  private 
notes,  when  two  young  men  were  announced, 
strangers  both,  —  one  from  Monsieur  de  Voltaire, 
the  other  from  Monet,  the  former  manager  of  the 
Opera-Comique. 

Naturally  Voltaire's  protege  was  first  admitted, 
and  presented  a  letter  wherein  the  patriarch  of 
Ferney  requested  his  fair  friend  to  assist  with  her 
advice  the  bearer  thereof,  a  young  gentleman, 
whose  dramatic  endowments  were  truly  extraor- 
dinary. Clairon  looked  at  the  neophyte,  an  ex- 
ceedingly comely  youth  whom  her  scrutiny  did 
not  seem  to  abash. 

"Recite  something  for  me,'*  she  said. 

He  attacked  a  scene  from  Alzire,  which  he  de- 
claimed with  much  spirit,  but  with  as  perfect  an 
imitation  of  the  voice  and  attitudes  of  Lekain  as 
if  the  great  actor  were  behind  him,  speaking  and 
making  the  gestures. 

The  actress  tried  to  make  some  comments. 
Impossible. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  mademoiselle.  It  cannot 
be  badly  done,  as  Monsieur  Lekain  does  it  the 
same  way.  I  have  his  manner  and  his  intonation 
in  that  passage  exactly. " 

"That  is  true,"  retorted  La  Clairon  at  last,  tes- 
tily ;  "  indeed,  we  have  the  advantage  of  Lekain  in 
youth  and  beauty.  Monsieur  de  Voltaire  made  a 
mistake  in  sending  you  to  me.     You  are  too  per- 


Madame  d'Epinays  Dream,        277 

feet  to  need  lessons;  I  will  give  you  a  letter  to 
the  Comedie,  and  I  doubt  not  that  you  will  be 
allowed  to  make  your  debut  there." 

Our  coxcomb  withdrew  enchanted.  The 
Comddie-Frangaise  was  about  to  receive  one 
more  wretched  actor;  but  is  wretched  a  strong 
enough  term.?  Do  you  know  of  anything  more 
horrible  than  utter  absence  of  individuality .'' 

Having  rid  herself  of  that  prodigy,  Mademoi- 
selle Clairon  orders  the  other  young  man  to  be 
introduced;  he  was  certainly  not  so  handsome, 
nor  so  well  set  up,  but  there  was  more  intelli- 
gence and  animation  in  his  features. 

"  In  what  can  I  serve  you,  my  friend } " 

"Madame,  I  propose  to  join  the  company  of  the 
Theatre-Francais. " 

"  First  of  all,  do  not  call  me  Madame,  —  call 
me  Mademoiselle;  that  is  the  title  given  to 
actresses.     Have  you  ever  acted  .'*  " 

No;  he  had  never  acted.  Monsieur  Monet  had 
discovered  some  capabilities  in  him  and  had  said 
to  him,  "Go  and  see  Clairon." 

So  he  had  come,  dam! 

This  was  said  in  an  artless  tone  which  inter- 
ested the  actress.  She  bade  him  sit  on  a  couch 
beside  her,  then  said,  — 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Go  and  bring  me  my 
work-bag  which  is  on  that  console  at  the  end  of 
the  room,  near  the  Japanese  work-table." 

This  was  a  pretext  to  see  how  he  walked,  how 
he  carried  himself.  When  he  returned,  she 
asked  him,  — 


278     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 

"You  have  never  had  occasion,  have  you,  to 
associate  with  people  of  quality?  " 

"No,  mademoiselle." 

"  So  it  seems.  —  Let  us  see,"  she  added  at  once, 
to  save  him  from  embarrassment,  "  what  are  the 
roles  which  you  think  you  know  best  and  which 
you  propose  that  I  shall  hear? " 

"In  the  first  place,  mademoiselle,  Ndron,  in 
Britannicus.^^ 

"  Ah !  yes,  very  good ;  but  first  do  me  the  favor 
to  tell  me  who  this  Neron  (Nero)  was,  how  he 
obtained  the  imperial  crown,  what  his  claim  was, 
his  descent,  his  parents,  his  education,  his  char- 
acter, his  tastes,  his  virtues,  his  vices  ?  I  assume 
that,  having  to  represent  him  on  the  stage,  you 
know  his  life  as  well  as  you  know  your  own,  and 
not  only  his  life  but  the  spirit,  the  manners,  of 
his  time.  The  key  to  the  role  is  to  be  found 
there;  the  rest  is  simply  a  matter  of  mechanism." 

The  poor  boy  was  confused,  admitted  that  he 
did  not  know  a  word  of  any  of  those  things,  lost 
his  courage  at  the  thought  of  all  that  he  must 
learn,  —  in  a  word,  displayed  such  genuine,  pro- 
found discouragement  that  Clairon,  kind-hearted 
creature  that  she  was,  was  touched.  She  encour- 
aged him,  promised  that,  if  he  really  had  an  incli- 
nation for  the  stage,  she  would  guide  him  in  his 
reading  and  loan  him  such  books  as  he  might  need. 

"But,  meanwhile,"  she  said,  "let  us  see  what 
you  can  do.  Recite  to  me,  for  instance,  N6ron's 
first  scene  with  Narcisse  and  the  scene  in  the 
third  act  with  Burrhus." 


Madame  d'Epinays  Dream,        279 

She  listened  to  the  end  without  speaking,  and 
when  he  had  finished,  — 

"All  this  is  good  for  nothing;  you  act  love  and 
frenzy  prettily  enough,  but  you  are  neither  amor- 
ous nor  frantic.  To  be  sure.  Monsieur  de  Vol- 
taire's protege  is  not  to  be  compared  to  you,  else 
I  should  not  take  the  trouble  to  say  so  much  to 
you;  but  your  Neron  is  too  automatic, — it  was 
Monsieur  de  Vaucanson  who  fashioned  it.  Why, 
my  poor  boy,  you  allow  him  to  retain  the  same 
tone,  the  same  expression,  when  he  is  with  his 
freedman  Narcisse  as  when  he  is  addressing 
Burrhus,  his  tutor;  and  he  such  a  cunning  actor, 
such  an  expert  in  falsehood  and  grimaces !  Did  I 
not  tell  you  that  the  key  to  the  part  lay  in  the 
knowledge  of  the  man  and  his  history } " 

"That  is  doubtless  true,  madame,  with  refer- 
ence to  historical  figures,  whom  we  know  where 
to  study.  But  in  the  case  of  a  character  in 
comedy,  one  of  those  heroes  of  modern  life  whom 
we  see  in  the  dramas  of  Monsieur  Diderot  and 
Monsieur  Sedaine,  how  are  we  to  learn  his  his- 
tory, study  his  character,  where,  in  what  books  ? " 

"  In  the  great  book  of  the  world,  which  is  open 
to  all,  but  which  only  seers  can  decipher.  Copy 
life,  young  man,  and  your  acting  will  be  accurate 
and  true:  you  will  be  what  Caillot  is  in  Syl- 
vain,  in  Le  Dherteur,  in  Lucile,  in  L'Amotiretcx  de 
Qiiinze  Ans ;  have  you  seen  him?  No.?  Well, 
go  and  see  him ;  but  if  you  find  yourself  imitat- 
ing him  as  that  great  booby  who  was  here  just  now 
imitates  Lekain,  do  not  see  him  any  more.     You 


28o     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

will  gain  more  by  seeing  bad  actors  act,  pro- 
vided that  you  feel  that  they  are  bad,  than  by 
following  sublime  actors  step  by  step." 

"  Monsieur  Monet  also  told  me,  mademoiselle, 
that  it  would  be  well  for  me  to  visit  museums,  as  I 
could  study  the  effects  of  passions  in  the  pictures 
and  statues." 

"  Yes,  doubtless,  but  direct  observation  is  much 
more  valuable.  As  a  general  rule,  remember  that 
you  should  study  nature  in  preference  to  art. 
Lastly,  and  above  all  things,  have  genius, — for 
genius  divines  everything,  replaces  everything." 

"And  if  I  haven't  any?" 

"  You  must  abandon  acting,  monsieur,  or,  at  all 
events,  abandon  all  idea  of  obtaining  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  great  actor.  You  may  gesticulate,  you 
may  shout,  you  may  strike  attitudes,  you  may  act 
for  the  pit  and  the  boxes;  and  when  you  visit 
certain  quarters  of  Paris  you  will  have  the  conso- 
lation of  hearing  people  say  that  they  prefer  you 
to  Caillot  and  Lekain,  and  you  will  finally  per- 
suade yourself  that  you  surpass  them,  —  the 
public  is  such  a  judicious  critic,  and  self-esteem 
is  so  credulous." 

At  this  point  Madame  d'fipinay  awoke  with  a 
start  and  found  herself  at  her  harpsichord,  her 
face  buried  in  her  music  and  her  head  heavy  from 
having  discoursed  so  long  and  learnedly. 

Every  word  of  this  fragment,  written  a  hundred 
years  ago,  is  true  to-day.  To-day,  as  then,  ig- 
norance, presumption,  indolence,  are  the  three 
sacramental  virtues  of  most  of  our  actors.     Some 


Madame  d'Epinays  Dream,        281 

of  them  work,  to  be  sure ;  but  very  few  know  how 
to  work. 

Apropos  of  a  study  wherein  we  called  attention 
to  the  intellectual  torpor  of  the  personnel  of  our 
theatres,  the  actor  Marais,  who  has  died  since, 
in  the  prime  of  life  and  brimful  of  talent,  wrote 
to  us,  — 

"But  I  work,  monsieur,  I  work:  some  of  my 
friends  can  tell  you  that,  after  acting  all  the 
evening,  I  sometimes  remain  out  until  two  or 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  discussing  ques- 
tions relating  to  our  art,  or  declaiming  speeches 
from  Tartuffe  or  Le  Misanthrope. " 

That  is  all  very  well.  But,  as  Madame  d'fipi- 
nay  says,  remember  that  you  should  study  nature 
in  preference  to  art.  Tartuffe  and  Le  Misan- 
thrope by  all  means,  but  the  salons,  the  street, 
the  tramways  and  restaurants  are  boundless  fields 
for  study  also. 

Copy  life,  watch  men,  speak  as  lovers  speak, 
who  are  always  inclined  to  be  confidential, 
observe  our  gestures,  our  intonations,  the  way  in 
which  yonder  lazy  fellow  holds  his  heavy  nerve- 
less, drooping  hands,  the  absent  air  with  which 
that  borrower  listens  to  you,  watching  for  the 
moment  to  "tap"  you;  make  mentally,  all  the 
time  and  everywhere,  sketches  after  nature,  which 
you  must  do  your  best  to  reproduce  as  soon  as 
you  are  at  home;  and  then,  have  genius.  That 
is  the  surest  way  of  all  to  succeed. 


282     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 


III. 

PROVINCIAL  CIRCUITS. 

During  the  very  hot  months,  when  the  asphalt 
on  the  boulevards  becomes  heated  and  soft  under 
the  feet,  when  we  see  no  one  at  the  play  save 
people  in  travelling  costume,  small  round  hats 
and  plaid  jackets,  —  at  that  season  our  actors 
organize  flocks  like  the  swallows,  to  emigrate 
into  the  departments. 

It  is  like  the  cross-over  figure  in  a  quadrille; 
for  the  provincial  actors  come  to  Paris  at  the 
same  time  of  year  to  seek  engagements  for  the 
coming  season,  one  and  all  cherishing  in  their 
hearts  a  vague  hope  of  finding  an  opening  at  one 
of  our  Parisian  theatres,  and  of  achieving  at  last 
the  success,  the  salary,  and  the  consideration 
which  even  the  largest  provincial  towns  only 
partially  afford  them. 

It  is  a  hard  trade  that  those  poor  creatures 
follow.  Playing  before  an  audience  of  limited 
size,  especially  if  we  compare  it  to  the  crowd 
which  fills  all  our  theatres  every  evening,  they 
are  obliged  to  know  a  large  number  of  parts  in 
order  to  give  novelty  to  the  announcements, 
which  soon  become  familiar  and  stale.  In  that 
way  they   hardly   have   time   to  learn,  never  to 


Provincial  Circuits,  283 

study,  to  sink  their  own  identity  in  that  of  the 
character  they  represent,  to  make  the  most  of  all 
the  resources  of  a  role.  Although  this  enforced 
variety  in  their  labors  makes  them  supple,  com- 
pels them  to  practise  a  wide  range  of  intonations 
and  attitudes,  they  lose  steadiness,  and  even  the 
taste  for  serious  work;  for  a  clever  actor,  after 
playing  the  leading  part  in  a  melodrama,  is  often 
obliged  to  perform  in  an  opera  the  same  evening. 

We  can  understand,  in  view  of  such  disadvan- 
tages, the  longing  of  those  unfortunate  artists  to 
obtain  a  hearing  here.  So  they  all  pass  the  whole 
of  their  vacation  going  up  and  down  the  dark 
stairways  of  theatrical  agencies,  at  first  pitilessly 
refusing  to  listen  to  a  suggestion  of  anything 
that  is  not  Paris  or  a  station  on  the  road  to  Paris ; 
then,  when  September  arrives,  after  refusing 
Nantes  or  Nevers  as  too  far  away,  too  "provin- 
cial," forced  to  sign  an  engagement  for  Barcelona 
or  New  Orleans. 

Meanwhile  the  fortunate  Parisian  actors  are 
executing,  singly  or  in  flocks,  their  provincial 
circuits.  Sometimes  an  impresario  arranges  the 
affair,  signs  the  contracts  with  the  managers  of 
the  different  theatres,  and  assumes  all  the  respon- 
sibility at  his  own  risk;  sometimes  the  actors 
club  together,  with  salaries  proportioned  to  the 
services  rendered,  and  assume  all  the  risks  of  the 
undertaking. 

It  is  an  excellent  way  of  utilizing  the  vacation 
months,  for  it  rarely  happens  that  these  expedi- 
tions fail  to  show  a  profit. 


284     Between  the  Flies  ajid  the  Footlights, 

Moreover,  the  actor,  naturally  nomadic  and 
fond  of  change,  finds  therein  a  means  of  gratify- 
ing the  craving  for  movement  which  has  always 
tormented  him  since  the  days  of  Thespis'  chariot. 

But  the  methods  of  transportation  have  changed 
somewhat  since  them.  To-day  Thespis  has  aban- 
doned her  chariot  to  strolling  players  and  gypsies ; 
and  if  Captain  Fracasse  should  undertake  to  fol- 
low the  charming  Ysabelle  in  these  days  of  ours, 
his  adventures  would  all  be  concerned  with  rail- 
way stations,  trains  missed,  tickets  lost,  and  dis- 
putes over  extra  luggage. 

Gone  also  is  the  time  when  Wilhelm  Meister 
discussed  with  his  companions  in  the  coach  the 
proper  way  to  act  Shakespeare,  whether  Hamlet 
should  be  fair  or  dark,   stout  or  thin. 

Actors  nowadays  travel  by  express  train  and 
give  but  little  thought  en  route  to  any  other  sub- 
ject than  the  probable  merits  of  the  hotel  at  which 
they  are  to  stay. 

As  little  as  possible  is  left  unprovided  for,  to 
depend  upon  chance. 

The  programme  of  the  plays  to  be  given  and 
the  number  of  performances  is  agreed  upon  in 
advance  with  the  manager,  who  has  furnished  in- 
formation concerning  the  quality  of  his  audiences, 
and  has  selected  from  the  repertory  the  plays 
which  he  considers  best  adapted  to  their  tastes ; 
for  we  must  not  imagine  that  the  provinces  accept 
blindly,  with  admiration  made  to  order,  the 
Parisian  troupes  which  come  to  them  heralded  by 
newspaper  puffs,  and  which  usually  include  per- 


Provincial  Circuits,  285 

haps  two  or  three  celebrities  surrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  people  of  moderate  talent. 

Just  the  opposite  happens  as  a  general  rule. 
Each  town  has  its  favorite  actors,  whom  it  praises 
and  patronizes  with  a  sort  of  local  self-esteem, 
and  who  form  a  part  of  its  monuments,  its  curiosi- 
ties. How  many  times  have  we  heard  provincial 
subscribers  to  their  local  theatres  say : 

"  We  have  a  Trial  here,  and  a  Dtigazon,  —  your 
Paris  theatres  have  nobody  to  compare  with 
them." 

It  is  rarely  true;  but  it  indicates  a  tendency 
to  extravagant  admiration  of  their  own  people 
which  constitutes  a  real  danger  to  travelling  com- 
panies. They  should  be  prepared,  therefore,  for 
severe  disappointment. 

The  question  of  the  repertory  is  very  import- 
ant. Plays  that  are  too  Parisian  in  tone  fall  flat 
before  the  ignorance  of  the  spectators,  do  not 
take,  and  arouse  prejudices. 

Again,  they  sometimes  arrive  at  a  town  rent  by 
a  local  quarrel  of  which  they  know  nothing,  and 
to  which  the  situations,  the  most  innocent  pas- 
sages in  the  most  inoffensive  work  seem  to 
allude.  That  is  why  it  is  the  first  duty  of  a  good 
impresario  to  become  thoroughly  familiar  with 
the  territory  to  be  covered  by  his  troupe. 

Generally  speaking,  whether  they  go  to  applaud 
or  to  criticise,  the  provincial  audience  goes  to 
the  theatre  to  see  the  Parisians.  There  are  some 
towns  where  **  society "  goes  there  at  no  other 
time. 


286     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

And  what  memories  our  celebrities  have  some- 
times left  behind  them  upon  stages  which  they 
have  simply  passed  across !  Those  memories 
save  them  forever  from  oblivion,  from  the  speedy 
burial  which  Paris  gives  to  its  lions,  knowing 
that  there  are  others  at  hand  awaiting  their  turn. 

How  many  old  names,  fougotten  among  us,  still 
live  in  the  provinces  in  all  their  glory! 

The  arrival  of  the  actors  is  an  event.  When 
they  have  left  the  railway  station  they  belong  to 
the  public,  which  stares  at  them  and  examines 
them.  When  there  are  great  men,  famous  men 
among  them,  there  is  always  a  little  disappoint- 
ment. 

"  What !  is  that  So-and-So  ? " 

They  are  surprised  to  see  those  famous  artists 
appear  in  simple  travelling-caps,  carrying  in  their 
hands  hat -boxes  in  which  their  haloes  must  be 
sadly  cramped. 

On  the  streets,  on  the  esplanade,  people  point 
them  out  to  one  another,  follow  them  uncere- 
moniously, for  they  know  that  such  curiosity  does 
not  embarrass  them  in  the  least,  and  that  an 
actor  walks  all  the  better  when  some  one  is 
looking  at  him. 

It  rarely  happens  that  their  presence  in  a  town 
does  not  give  birth  to  some  vocation  for  the 
drama.  Little  plays  are  submitted  to  them,  as 
to  which,  "I  should  be  very  glad  to  have  your 
opinion." 

Nor  is  this  the  only  agreeable  feature  of  his 
journey  to  an  actor  on  circuit.     His  self-esteem 


Provincial  Circuits,  287 

IS  gratified  in  every  way.  First  of  all,  he  has  the 
satisfaction  of  creating  parts  which  he  has  longed 
for,  and  which  the  predilection  of  manager  or 
authors  has  hitherto  intrusted  to  other  inter- 
preters. 

Vanity  aside,  the  genuine  artist  who  does  not 
confine  himself  to  servile  imitation  may  derive 
great  enjoyment  in  the  way  of  gratified  curiosity 
and  emulation. 

In  truth,  a  role  may  be  understood  in  more  ways 
than  one,  and  an  actor  always  believes  that  he 
has  found  the  best  way.  And  then  how  many 
stars  of  the  second  magnitude  pass  quickly  and 
easily  into  the  ranks  of  the  first  magnitude  upon 
boards  where  comparisons  do  not  exist  or  are 
favorable !  A  name  that  is  printed  in  almost 
imperceptible  letters  at  the  Gymnase  or  Porte- 
Saint-Martin,  appears  in  huge  capitals  at  the  top 
of  the  posters. 

The  return  to  Paris  seems  hard  after  this  expe- 
rience, and  one  consoles  himself  for  being  obliged 
to  return  to  the  ranks  with  the  thought  that  for 
one  month  he  has  been  a  "star." 

Sometimes  it  happens  that  the  troupe  which 
came  from  Paris  is  not  complete  and  is  recruited 
from  the  local  actors.  In  such  cases  the  "star" 
proffers  advice  as  to  the  proper  method  of  inter- 
preting the  role,  and  does  it  with  a  charming 
affability  due  to  his  great  superiority. 

Sometimes  he  goes  so  far  as  to  promise  to  use 
his  influence  with  a  Parisian  manager.  This 
often  gives  rise  to  strange  disillusionings.     The 


288     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 

point  of  view  is  so  different;  the  light  of  Paris 
is  so  bright,  so  pitiless  in  revealing  defects ! 

Some  one  discovers  at  Bordeaux  or  Toulouse 
a  wonderful  jeiine  premier,  a  Delaunay  at  twenty. 
He  is  brought  to  Paris.  He  makes  his  debut  at 
the  Theatre-F'rancais,  and  it  is  found,  but  too 
late,  that  he  is  a  provincial  Delaunay  and  will 
always  remain  one ! 

Paris  is  full  of  these  actors,  who  are  destined  to 
shine  only  in  peripatetic  theatres.  They  should 
organize  a  company  once  and  for  all,  find  an 
experienced  manager,  and  go  hence  never  to 
return;  for  they  are  swallows  whose  return  no 
one  desires. 


Theatrical  Mournmg,  289 


IV. 

THEATRICAL  MOUR>:iNG. 
Dialogue  between  two  Orchestra  Chairs, 

"  What  's  the  matter  ?  Why  do  you  crumple  up 
that  newspaper  so  angrily?  Does  the  play  bore 
you?" 

"Faith,  no,  for  I 'm  not  listening  to  it.  It's 
this  article  I  have  just  read,  —  one  of  the  stereo- 
typed articles  that  recur  five  or  six  times  a  year 
with  the  irritating  monotony  of  a  flat,  sentimental 
refrain,  as  hackneyed  and  as  false  as  the  patriotic 
ballad  with  which  Monsieur  Cooper  is  just  now 
torturing  our  ears.  Oh!  the  idiotic  sentimental- 
ism,  the  misplaced  enthusiasm,  the  judgment 
which  limps  and  stumbles  in  all  the  ruts  of  the 
conventional !  " 

"  But  what  is  it  all  about?  " 

"  B ,  the  actor,  who  has  just  lost  his  daugh- 
ter and  took  part  in  a  benefit  performance  two 
days  after." 

"  Oh,  the  poor  man  ! " 

"Bah!  nonsense.  You're  just  like  the  re- 
porter. You  groan  over  the  fate  of  that  despair- 
ing father  who  goes  upon  the  boards,  paints  his 
face,  puts  on  a  wig  and  a  pasteboard  forehead,  to 
try  and  make  us  laugh  on  returning  from  a  funeral 

19 


290     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

at  which  he  has  wept  so  bitterly !  Morbleu  !  if 
the  fellow's  grief  was  so  great  as  they  say,  who 
compelled  him  to  reappear  so  soon?  " 

"His  manager,  probably,  or  his  contract." 
"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  What  manager 
would  be  inhuman  enough  to  deny  a  father  the 
right  to  weep  for  his  child  a  day  or  two,  and  force 
him  to  come  on  the  stage  with  red  eyes  only 
partly  wiped?  And  if  by  any  chance  there  were 
such  a  manager,  where  would  he  find  a  court  and 
judges  to  justify  him?  Judges  are  men,  after  all. 
Impassive  law  is  not  the  only  thing  that  occupies 
a  seat  among  them.  There  is  pity,  too,  —  the 
fellow-feeling  of  man  for  man;  and  I  cannot 
imagine  that  an  actor  who  appeared  at  the  bar, 
dressed  in  black,  in  the  black  that  is  much  more 
dismal  and  solemn  than  that  worn  by  lawyers, 
and  who  should  say  just  this :  *  Messieurs,  my 
daughter's  death  was  a  great  blow  to  me.  It  was 
impossible  for  me  to  return  to  the  stage  for  a 
fortnight,'  —  I  cannot  believe  that  such  an  unfor- 
tunate creature  would  be  sentenced  to  pay  a  fine 
or  to  any  sort  of  penalty,  just  because  his  voice 
refused  to  sing  and  his  sorrow  to  be  amusing." 

"  In  very  truth,  my  dear  fellow,  you  seem  to  me 
to  be  led  astray  by  an  excessive  and  unjust  sen- 
sitiveness. It  vexes  you  to  see  an  author  reap- 
pear en  the  stage  so  soon  after  the  death  of  one 
of  his  nearest  relations;  but  you  do  not  cry  out 
against  the  grocer  at  the  street  corner,  who,  on 
the  day  after  his  wife's  death,  takes  his  place 
bright   and   early   behind   his   counter,  crushing 


Theatrical  Mourning,  291 

sugar  and  grinding  coffee  with  great  courage. 
Why,  some  shopkeepers  have  actually  made  use 
of  invitations  to  a  funeral  as  advertisements;  and 
do  you  think  that  the  announcement,  *  His  be- 
reaved widow  will  continue  the  business,'  is  an 
invention  of  the  petty  newspapers?  However, 
without  going  so  far  as  these  extravagant  exhibi- 
tions of  selfishness,  these  instances  of  atrophy  of 
the  moral  sense  which  the  constant  thought  of 
money  sometimes  produces,  the  story  of  your 
actor  is  to  some  extent  the  story  of  all  of  us. 
One  hardly  has  time  to  stoop  over  the  friend,  the 
relative,  who  has  fallen,  —  for  life  is  there,  close 
on  your  heels,  urging  you  on  and  crowding  you; 
you  must  rise  speedily,  resume  your  place  in  the 
ranks,  and  march  forward.  That  is  why  the  crowds 
in  large  cities  are  so  sad  to  contemplate.  You 
rub  elbows  with  despair,  with  recent  mourning, 
visible  in  furtive  tears  behind  long  black  veils; 
you  hear  nervous  voices  still  trembling  with  im- 
precations or  sobs;  but  they  all  hurry  along  none 
the  less,  mingle  with  the  passing  stream  without 
pausing  long  at  the  gloomy  shores  where  one  can 
weep  for  one's  dead  undisturbed.  In  the  country 
it  is  even  more  striking.  The  land  does  not  wait ; 
the  cattle  require  their  daily  pasturage.  It  is 
impossible  to  postpone  ploughing  or  reaping,  for 
the  seasons  change  pitilessly.  And  so  while  the 
master,  in  the  upper  chamber  of  the  farmhouse 
or  the  mill,  feels  his  last  hour  draw  nigh,  the 
usual  occupations  are  uninterrupted,  the  ploughs 
go  forth,  the   cattle  return,  the   laborers  in  the 


292     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

fields  sow  seeds  which  he  will  never  see  above  the 
ground;  and  no  sooner  is  he  buried  in  the  little 
village  cemetery  than  his  widow,  her  eyes  swollen 
with  weeping,  sweeps  the  living-room,  lights  the 
fire,  and  prepares  the  noonday  meal  for  the  chil- 
dren and  servants  immediately  after  laying  aside 
her  ample  funeral  cloak. " 

"What  you  say  is  true.  But  all  the  occupa- 
tions you  cite  are  manual,  material,  give  employ- 
ment to  the  physical  being  only.  It  is,  in  short, 
the  stern  law  of  toil  imposed  upon  mankind  ever 
since  the  world  began  to  revolve.  There  is  noth- 
ing offensive  to  me  in  the  association  of  this  idea 
of  enforced  labor  with  the  idea  of  mourning. 
But  in  the  actor's  profession  there  is  an  element 
of  choice,  of  enjoyment,  of  uselessness,  a  constant 
display  of  militant  vanity  which  seems  incom- 
patible with  true  grief.  In  fact,  it  is  not  a  pro- 
fession; it  is  an  art." 

"  Yes,  it  is  an  art ;  but  be  careful  of  your  words. 
If  the  actor  who  appears  on  the  stage  on  the  day 
following  a  cruel  bereavement  ruffles  your  deli- 
cacy of  sentiment  and  makes  you  long  to  hiss 
him  vigorously  in  order  to  teach  him  discretion 
and  propriety,  what  will  you  say  of  the  writer 
whose  necessities  compel  him  to  blacken  paper 
under  circumstances  no  less  painful?  Do  you 
remember  the  ghastly  yet  eloquent  scene  in  one 
of  Balzac's  books,  where  Rubempre  writes  his 
horrible  couplets  by  the  light  of  the  tapers  gleam- 
ing about  Coralie's  dead  body.?  Perhaps  it  may 
seem  to  you  a  romantic  invention.     In  that  case, 


Theatrical  Mourning,  293 

I  can  cite  an  example  from  real  life,  almost  as 
brutal  and  cruel  as  that.  I  had  in  my  hands 
recently  the  correspondence  of  one  of  the  most 
illustrious  writers  of  this  age,  who  died  a  few 
years  since.  In  one  of  those  letters,  written 
toward  the  close  of  his  career,  the  poor  great 
poet,  condemned  by  fate  to  excessive,  unremit- 
ting toil  with  his  pen,  compared  himself  to  a  cart- 
horse that  had  *  fallen  in  the  shafts,'  and  thinking 
of  the  heavy  load  he  had  been  dragging  for  thirty 
years,  he  declared  that  he  had  never  had  the 
right  to  rest,  to  lay  aside  his  task  for  one  moment, 
*that  even  during  the  week  when  his  mother  died, 
he  had  written  his  feuilleton,  and  that  that  feuil- 
leton  paid  the  funeral  expenses. '  —  I  confess  that 
I  shuddered  when  I  read  that  sentence  which  I 
should  not  venture  even  to  repeat,  were  it  not 
that  the  letter  from  which  it  is  taken  is  soon  to 
appear  with  the  whole  of  the  poet's  correspond- 
ence. What  impression  does  that  letter  make 
upon  you }  Will  you  vent  your  wrath  upon  that 
man  also.?  I  am  sure  not;  and  yet  his  case  is 
identical  with  your  actor's.  What  distinction 
can  you  make  between  them.?  Why  are  they 
not  equally  entitled  to  your  respect  and  your 
sympathy } " 

There  was  one  of  those  pauses  which  follow  an 
unanswerable  argument,  and  which  we  may  com- 
pare to  the  failure  of  respiration  caused  by  a  blow 
with  a  fist  on  the  chest.  In  a  moment  one  of  the 
two  voices  continued : 

"  Well,  yes,  I  believe  you  are  right !     It  may 


294     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

be  that  this  actor,  who  acted  on  the  day  after  his 
daughter's  funeral,  was  driven  to  it  by  one  of  the 
unnatural  necessities  of  existence  of  which  you 
were  just  speaking.  But  I  wish  that  he  need  not 
be  praised  for  his  action ;  I  would  prefer  not  to 
read  on  every  occasion  this  everlasting,  tearful, 
hackneyed  article  which  made  me  so  angry  and 
led  up  to  our  discussion:  'Poor  father!  Coura- 
geous artist !  To  think  that  while  he  was  making 
us  laugh  until  our  sides  ached,  he  was  thinking 
of  his  child  and  weeping  inwardly!'  —  Or  this: 
*  Unfortunate  wife,  brave-hearted  actress,  com- 
pelled to  sing,  to  grimace,  to  sharpen  with  all 
her  roguish  wit  the  point  of  an  obscene  line, 
while  she  knows  that  her  husband  is  in  the  death 
agony  and  is  not  sure  of  finding  him  alive  when 
she  returns  home !  '  —  When  one  has  read  that 
stuff  five  times,  ten  times,  in  a  year,  how  is  one 
to  avoid  losing  his  temper?  And  if  you  knew  the 
influence  such  articles  have  on  actors,  on  those 
great  children  who  are  always  longing  to  be 
stared  at,  who  think  of  nothing  but  producing  an 
effect  or  a  sensation,  and  who  strike  attitudes 
everywhere,  even  under  the  most  depressing  cir- 
cumstances !  Deceived  as  to  the  public  feeling, 
led  astray  too  by  the  false  glare  of  the  stage  to 
which  their  profession  accustoms  them,  there 
comes  a  time  when  their  idea  of  what  honor  re- 
quires is  sadly  distorted :  '  My  daughter  died 
yesterday.  No  matter;  I  promised  to  appear  at 
this  benefit,  and  appear  I  will.  Professional 
duty  before  everything ! '  —  The  truth  is  that  the 


Theatrical  Mourning,  295 

actor  loves  to  act,  that  he  cannot  do  without 
acting.  Be  assured  that  the  poet  when  he  wrote 
that  terrible  feidlleton  of  which  the  letter  speaks, 
wrote  it  with  difficulty,  in  a  frenzy  of  grief,  in  a 
solitary  room,  made  larger  and  colder  by  the  ab- 
sence of  the  loved  one,  where  everything  reminded 
him  of  his  loss.  The  actor,  on  the  other  hand, 
when  he  is  once  on  the  stage,  *  in  his  goodman's 
skin,'  as  they  say,  has  entirely  forgotten  his  mis- 
fortune; he  has  forgotten  it  for  a  whole  evening, 
in  the  intoxication  of  the  brilliant  light  and  the 
applause  of  the  crowd.  And  it  is  just  because  I 
feel  that  he  has  forgotten  it,  because  I  feel  that 
he  has  greatly  enjoyed  entertaining  us,  that, 
despite  all  your  excellent  arguments,  there  is 
something  which  wounds  me  in  the  lowest  depths 
of  my  human  ego  in  his  too  great  haste  to  return 
to  the  boards.  Moreover,  all  actors  do  not  fall 
into  this  absurd  and  inhuman  exaggeration  of 
professional  duty.  For  example,  here  is  an  anec- 
dote that  I  once  heard  of  the  excellent*  Lafontaine, 
at  the  time  of  his  charming  evenings  at  the  Gym- 
nase;  I  cannot  say  that  it  is  true,  but  it  is 
entirely  consistent  with  the  character  of  the  man, 
whom  you  knew  as  well  as  I.  One  evening,  a  few 
moments  before  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  on  the 
stage,  Lafontaine  received  a  despatch  stating  that 
his  old  father,  who  then  lived  in  the  suburbs  of 
Paris,  was  seriously  ill  and  wished  to  see  him  at 
once.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  distracted 
actor,  who  was  three  fourths  made  up,  unmade 
his  face,  dressed  himself,  left  his  dressing-room 


296     Between  the  Flies  ajid  the  Footlights, 

at  full  speed,  and  rushed  down  the  stairs,  deaf  to 
the  lamentations  of  stage  manager  and  acting 
manager. 

"  'Where  are  you  going,  you  villain  ?  The  hall 
is  full ! ' 

" '  No  matter,  make  an  announcement,  return 
the  money,  change  your  play. ' 

"'But  —  ' 

" '  There  is  no  but.  You  cannot  force  me  to 
act  with  this  knife  through  my  heart.  In  the 
first  place,  I  could  not  do  it.  I  should  be  think- 
ing all  the  time  that  my  father  was  likely  to  die 
without  seeing  me.  I  should  be  quite  capable  of 
sobbing  bitterly  or  running  away  in  the  middle 
of  a  scene. ' 

"  In  vain  did  they  implore,  threaten  him  with 
a  lawsuit;  it  was  all  unavailing,  the  actor  took 
flight,  and  the  Gymnase  did  without  him  that 
evening.  It  seems  to  me  that  that  incident  con- 
firms my  opinion  and  condemns  all  those  who  do 
not  behave  as  he  did.  Instead  of  stalking 
through  the  wings  with  a  long  face,  heaving 
heart-breaking  sighs,  giving  and  receiving  sym- 
pathetic clasps  of  the  hand,  inviting  the  whole 
staff,  prompter  included,  to  say,  *  My  poor  fel- 
low ! '  in  accordance  with  the  usual  programme  in 
such  cases,  Lafontaine  went  to  embrace  his  father, 
perhaps  saved  himself  from  bitter  remorse,  and 
spared  us  poor  devils  the  annoyance  of  reading  in 
the  newspapers  the  famous  article :  *  Unfortunate 
son!     Courageous  artist !     To  think  that,  etc. ' 

"  The  charm  of  the  story  lies  in  the  fact  that 


Theatrical  Mourning.  297 

Lafontaine,  on  reaching  his  destination,  found 
his  father  playing  his  game  of  piquet  with  a 
neighbor,  as  he  did  every  evening.  When  his  son 
appeared  the  old  man  began  to  laugh, — 

"*  I  gave  you  a  fine  fright,  didn't  I,  my  boy? 
But  what  could  I  do  ?  I  felt  horribly  depressed, 
full  of  black  thoughts ;  I  longed  to  embrace  you, 
and  as  I  knew  you  were  not  acting  —  come,  don't 
scold  me,  but  sit  you  down,  and  we  '11  have  a 
pleasant  evening  together. '  " 

I  had  not  heard  of  this  denouement,  but,  no 
matter,  I  persist  in  the  opinion  that  Lafontaine 
is  a  fine  fellow  and  that  he  was  quite  right  to  do 
as  he  did. 


298     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 


V. 

STAGE-SETTING  AND  REHEARSALS. 
I. 

In  the  days  of  Tartuffe  and  Le  Misanthrope,  it 
would  have  been  very  hard  to  arrange  any  sort  of 
a  stage-setting,  with  the  double  row  of  noblemen 
standing  along  both  sides  of  the  stage,  encroach- 
ing upon  it  and  throwing  everything  into  confu- 
sion by  going  noisily  in  and  out,  sometimes  too 
by  practical  jokes,  as  on  the  evening  when  a  cer- 
tain marquis  in  merry  mood  conceived  the  idea  of 
taking  with  him,  and  installing  in  the  reserved 
places,  as  many  hunchbacks  as  he  could  find. 
Under  such  conditions,  upon  a  stage  so  largely 
monopolized,  the  actors  had  no  choice  but  to 
confine  themselves  to  their  acting  and  to  their 
delivery,  without  seeking  any  considerable 
scenic  effect.  The  author's  stage  directions 
sufficed  for  that. 

A  dramatic  writer  now  little  known,  Chapu- 
zeau,  a  contemporary  of  Moliere,  tells  us  in  a 
very  interesting  and  very  rare  little  book,  in  the 
chapter  on  Rehearsals,  that  "  the  author  is  always 
present  and  assists  the  actor  if  he  falls  into  any 
error,  if  he  does  not  grasp  the  meaning,  if  he  de- 
parts from  what  is  natural  in  voice  or  gesture,  if 


Stage-Setting  and  Rehearsals.       299 

he  displays  more  fire  than  is  fitting  in  passages 
which  demand  some  fire.  The  intelligent  actor 
too  is  at  liberty  to  give  advice  at  these  rehearsals, 
without  giving  offence  to  his  comrade,  because 
the  pleasure  of  the  public  is  concerned."  We 
must  believe  that  at  that  time  actors  were  less 
sensitive  than  in  our  day;  for,  even  though  the 
pleasure  of  the  public  be  never  so  much  con- 
cerned, our  theatrical  characters  rarely  accord  the 
right  of  criticism  to  a  comrade. 

As  for  leaving  to  the  author  alone  the  respon- 
sibility of  staging  his  play,  that  was  possible  in 
Chapuzeau's  time,  when  it  was  simply  a  matter 
of  "  assisting  the  actor  as  to  his  voice  or  gesture ;  " 
but  with  all  the  complications  of  the  modern 
stage,  that  has  become  very  difificult,  for  the 
scenic  perspective  does  not  approach  very  closely 
that  of  life  and  requires  special  study. 

Certain  of  our  authors,  however,  arrange  the 
stage-setting  of  their  works  themselves. 

Monsieur  Sardou,  for  example,  sits  in  the  man- 
ager's seat  and  allows  no  one  to  come  near  him 
while  he  is  directing  his  rehearsals.  He  comes 
with  his  play  all  mounted  in  his  head.  He 
knows  beforehand  when  his  characters  will  sit 
down,  rise,  cross  the  stage;  he  can  tell  the  exact 
location  of  every  property  and  whether  a  certain 
door  should  open  out  or  in. 

You  feel  that  while  writing  his  comedy  he 
acted  it,  that  he  saw  it  at  the  same  time  that  he 
composed  it;  and  it  is  in  fact  most  essential  to 
consider  the  action  as  well  as  the  words  in  an  art 


300    Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

in  which   the   eyes   are  as  good  judges   as   the 
thought. 

But  all  dramatic  authors  are  not  like  Monsieur 
Sardou,  who  has  given  his  life  exclusively  to  the 
stage  and  knows  all  the  nooks  and  corners  of  the 
trade.  There  are  some  whom  the  boards  terrify ; 
who,  while  they  have  a  very  clear  and  well- 
defined  vision  of  what  they  have  conceived,  are 
unable  to  describe  it  so  that  others  may  under- 
stand and  interpret  it,  and  who  lack  assurance  at 
rehearsals  because  they  feel  that  they  are  awk- 
ward in  expressing  their  ideas  in  gesticulation  and 
declamation.  And  then  there  are  suggestions  to 
be  made  to  the  actors. 

The  excellent  Chapuzeau  speaks  of  it  very 
unconcernedly;  but  it  is  more  of  a  task  than 
one  would  think  "to  assist  the  actor." 

In  the  first  place,  when  the  author  is  young 
and  the  work  in  question  is  one  of  his  first,  the 
rehearsals  cause  the  curious  intoxication  which 
the  sculptor  or  the  painter  feels  as  his  sketch 
progresses,  as  his  thought  takes  form  and  becomes 
a  work.  Everything  seems  beautiful,  grand,  to 
him.  The  actor  must  needs  be  a  stutterer,  and 
a  terrible  one  at  that,  to  prevent  a  debutant  in 
dramatic  writing  from  experiencing  a  sensation 
of  pure  enjoyment  as  he  hears  his  prose  or  his 
verse  declaimed. 

Later,  when  experience  has  come,  if  he  sees 
that  the  sentiments  he  has  tried  to  express  are  dis- 
figured by  their  interpretation,  he  is  always  some- 
what embarrassed  about  mentioning  that  fact. 


Stage-Setting  and  Rehearsals.       301 

It  is  so  disagreeable  to  say  to  a  man  who 
claims  to  know  his  business : 

"You  are  mistaken;  that 's  not  right." 

In  such  a  case  the  actor  has  innumerable  an- 
swers to  make ;  he  appeals  to  his  experience,  his 
familiarity  with  the  public.  He  knows  what 
takes  and  what  does  not  take. 

You  are  very  fortunate  if  he  does  not  close 
your  mouth  with  some  disgusting  remark  taken 
from  the  vocabulary  of  the  wings,  like  \h2X.  jeune 
premier^  whom  one  of  our  friends  requested  to 
deliver  more  quietly  an  amorous  speech  which 
he  failed  to  understand  and  spoiled  by  loud 
declamation. 

"It   isn't   possible,"   the  actor  remonstrated. 
"I  can   never  say  that  passage   in  that  way;    / 
haven  t  it  in  my  legs.'^ 

He  had  not  that  passage  in  his  legs !  What 
answer  can  you  make  to  such  objections  as  that.? 
The  best  way  is  to  yield,  unless  you  prefer  to 
be  confronted  by  a  concentrated  ill-humor,  a 
determination  to  submit  under  protest,  expressed 
by  a  drawing  in  of  the  lips,  a  stiff,  conventional 
attitude,  the  nonchalant  air  of  a  man  who  seems 
to  say :  "  I  will  do  what  you  wish;  but  I  wash  my 
hands  of  all  responsibility." 

Whereupon,  if  you  distrust  yourself  ever  so 
little,  you  are  full  of  doubts  and  fears  until  the 
first  performance  has  proved  you  to  be  right  or 
wrong. 

With  a  good  stage  manager  beside  him  the 
author  avoids  all  these  annoyances;   but  a  good 


302     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

stage  manager  is  a  very  rare  thing,  for  the  post 
demands  much  flexibility  and  tact  in  addition  to 
great  scenic  intelligence. 

The  audience,  watching  the  performance  of  a 
play,  has  no  suspicion  of  all  the  work  required 
to  stage  and  direct  a  plot  that  seems  to  it  so 
natural.  Not  an  intonation,  not  a  gesture  that 
has  not  been  agreed  upon  beforehand,  that  does 
not  form  part  of  a  carefully  thought-out  whole. 
The  least  important  passages  —  that  is  the  term 
applied  to  the  going  and  coming  across  the  stage 
—  have  been  the  subjects  of  long  discussions. 

If  there  are  many  people  on  the  stage,  you 
must  arrange  the  position  of  each  one,  make  the 
groups  harmonize  with  one  another,  give  the 
characters  who  are  not  speaking  something  to  do, 
and  at  the  same  time  concentrate  the  interest  at 
the  really  vital  point,  so  that  it  may  not  be  dis- 
tributed indifferently  in  all  the  corners.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  there  are  only  two  people  in 
sight,  you  must  see  to  it  that  they  alone  fill  the 
whole  stage,  you  must  make  them  begin  the  scene 
in  one  corner,  continue  it  in  another,  keep  up 
the  action  without  interruption  and  avoid  leaving 
one  side  of  the  stage  too  long  unoccupied  and 
cold. 

These  matters  are  elementary  in  the  trade,  but 
one  must  thoroughly  understand  them  and  proceed 
cautiously,  especially  when  confronted  by  a  deli- 
cate situation,  by  one  of  those  dangerous  scenes, 
brittle  as  spun  glass,  in  which  everything  depends 
on  the  appropriate  grouping  of  the  characters. 


Stage- Setting  and  Rehearsals,       303 

The  stage  manager  undertakes  to  arrange  all 
these  things,  — after  taking  the  author's  advice, 
of  course. 

Skilful  management  consists  in  bringing  the 
leading  idea  of  the  play  into  relief,  in  concentrat- 
ing the  light  on  the  proper  points,  in  a  word,  — 
the  stage  being  always  to  some  extent  a  picture, 
—  in  paying  special  attention  to  the  foreground 
and  leaving  in  a  sort  of  vague  perspective  the 
defects  or  weaknesses  of  the  work  and  its 
interpretation. 

How  great  a  store  of  patience  this  requires! 
How  many  battles  must  be  fought,  now  with  the 
author,  now  with  the  actors !  In  the  most  per- 
fectly constructed  play  one  always  discovers, 
when  it  is  subjected  to  the  test  of  rehearsals, 
situations  which  end  too  abruptly  or  passages  of 
wearisome  length  unnoticed  in  the  reading. 

The  author  must  be  induced  to  lengthen  or  cut 
a  scene. 

To  lengthen  —  that  is  easily  done;  but  as  to 
cutting  —  especially  if  the  dramatist  happens  to 
be  a  writer  at  the  same  time,  and  has  exerted 
himself  to  frame  his  drama  in  fine  language  —  he 
will  be  very  hard  to  convince. 

Nor  is  the  stage  manager's  situation  more 
agreeable  with  regard  to  the  actors.  There  again 
there  are  susceptibilities  to  be  handled  gingerly, 
and  surly  temperaments  and  self-esteem  always 
raw  and  ready  to  bleed  at  the  slightest  touch. 

At  the  first  rehearsals  all  goes  well.  The 
actors  are  in  a  fine  frenzy  of  creation ;  they  study, 


304     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

they  work,  they  ponder;  but  if  the  studies  last 
too  long,  their  ardor  dies  out.  They  grow  weary 
and  lose  their  enthusiasm. 

Those  who  know  their  lines  thoroughly  lose 
their  patience  because  of  the  slow  progress  caused 
by  denser  or  less  experienced  intellects.  The 
manager  is  the  scapegoat;  he  is  assailed  on  every 
side.  Some  great  actors,  spoiled  by  long- 
continued  success,  have  nerves  like  a  pretty 
woman's  and  impose  no  restraint  on  them. 

How  many  times  we  have  seen  poor  Felix,  an 
actor  by  instinct  rather  than  by  study,  albeit 
a  most  estimable  man,  lose  his  temper  over  thp 
length  of  a  rehearsal  and  hurl  his  book  over 
the  footlights !  "  I  won't  rehearse  any  more  — 
sapristi!'' 

The  manager,  unmoved,  would  pick  up  the 
book  and  read  the  lines  that  day  in  place  of  Felix, 
who  would  return  the  next  day  as  if  nothing  had 
happened. 

A  good  manager  should  be  able  at  any  moment 
to  fill  the  place  of  any  and  every  character  in  the 
play  under  rehearsal;  that  is  why  the  post  is 
generally  given  to  a  former  actor  who  has  been 
compelled  by  advancing  years  or  some  infirmity 
to  abandon  the  stage,  like  the  excellent  Davesnes, 
who  was  stage  manager  at  the  Th^atre-Francais 
for  twenty-five  years. 

Monsieur  Dubois-Davesnes,  a  graduate  of  the 
Conservatoire,  had  had  a  very  thorough  dramatic 
education  and  made  a  successful  debut,  but  he 
felt  that  his  small  stature  would  always  be  an 


Stage-Setting  and  Rehearsals,       305 

obstacle  to  his  advancement,  and  he  left  the 
stage  very  suddenly. 

He  was  a  typical  stage  manager,  a  very  small 
man,  very  mild  and  courteous,  very  discreet; 
but  he  took  fire  as  soon  as  he  stepped  on  the 
boards,  bustled  about  in  all  directions,  declaiming 
one  after  another,  in  different  voices,  passages 
from  all  the  roles,  —  noble  fathers,  despairing 
mothers,  innocent  maidens,  adulterous  wives;  and 
withal  very  modest  and  deferential  when  he  had 
to  deal  with  such  actors  as  Got,  Coquelin,  or  De- 
launay;  nevertheless  those  eminent  artists,  know- 
ing their  manager's  worth,  never  failed  to  come 
to  him  at  the  end  of  each  rehearsal  and  ask,  — 

"  Well,  Monsieur  Davesnes,  are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

When  the  play  is  thoroughly  "disentangled," 
when  the  parts  are  learned,  the  effects  decided 
upon,  it  is  customary  for  the  acting  manager  in 
person  to  watch  the  final  rehearsals. 

Some  of  these  gentlemen  know  nothing  about 
it  and  spoil  the  work  already  accomplished; 
others,  on  the  contrary,  are  consummate  masters 
of  their  duties.  No  one  ever  understood  better 
than  Monsieur  Montigny  the  art  of  staging  bour- 
geois plays. 

He  was  one  of  the  first  to  break  loose  from 
solemn  traditions,  introducing  on  the  stage  the 
natural  and  familiar  incidents  of  real  life,  those 
honest,  kindly  roles  which  are  played  with  the 
back,  with  the  hands  in  the  pockets. 

Monsieur  Perrin  always  aimed  at  beautiful 
stage-pictures;  he  remembered  that  he  had  been 

20 


3o6     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

manager  of  the  Opera,  and  was  a  little  cramped 
in  the  classic  repertory  which  his  decorative  in- 
ventions caused  to  crack  in  all  directions. 

Before  him  Monsieur  fidouard  Thierry,  a  very 
bright  and  well-informed  man,  aimed  to  present  a 
moral  stage-setting,  so  to  speak,  and  in  modern 
plays  became  the  collaborator  of  his  authors. 

Monsieur  Hostein,  like  Monsieur  Marc  Fournier 
long  before,  was  an  admirable  master  of  stage 
effects  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  masses.  Give 
him  all  the  multicolored  costumes  of  a  fairy  ex- 
travaganza or  a  great  historical  play  to  group, 
and  he  would  produce  a  marvellous  picture. 

Monsieur  Carvalho  is  the  most  artistic,  the 
most  original  of  all.  His  only  fault  is  a  con- 
suming activity,  a  poetic  imagination  which  al- 
ways leaves  him  dissatisfied  with  what  he  has 
devised,  because  he  is  so  anxious  to  devise  some- 
thing better.  He  destroys  one  day  what  he  made 
the  night  before;  and  when  the  play  is  ready,  one 
must  positively  snatch  it  from  his  hands. 


Parisian  managers  have  the  fault  of  keeping 
their  plays  in  rehearsal  too  long.  A  play  which 
is  unhappily  destined  to  enjoy  only  a  very  limited 
number  of  performances  is  likely  to  have  had  an 
incalculable  number  of  rehearsals,  thereby  re- 
minding one  of  those  exotic  plants  which  are  cul- 
tivated a  hundred  years,  to  bloom  for  a  single 
day. 


Stage-Setting  and  Rehearsals,       2P7 

In  Moliere's  lifetime,  the  most  perfect  mas- 
terpieces required  little  more  than  a  week  of 
rehearsals. 

Doubtless  there  was  an  opening  there  for  im- 
provisation of  the  Italian  sort,  and  we  must 
admit  that  the  complications  and  perfection  of 
modern  stage-setting  require  much  more  time 
and  labor. 

But  what  can  any  one  gain  by  studies  prolonged 
beyond  all  reason.^  By  dint  of  digging  and 
delving  in  a  role,  one  always  finds  the  bottom  at 
last,  or  goes  astray  at  last  in  the  search  for  it. 

It  generally  happens,  too,  that  the  actors,  feel- 
ing that  they  have  unlimited  time  before  them, 
go  about  their  work  lazily,  and  out  of  fifty  re- 
hearsals not  more  than  twenty  are  of  any  value. 
The  other  thirty  simply  serve  to  bore  and  surfeit 
all  concerned. 

The  glowing  enthusiasm  of  the  early  rehearsals 
having  once  died  away,  they  all  go  through  their 
parts  with  a  feeling  of  distaste,  and  in  this  first, 
negligent  interpretation  the  faults  of  the  play 
naturally  stand  out  in  bolder  relief,  while  its 
good  qualities  are  less  striking. 

By  degrees  the  actor's  confidence  becomes  im- 
paired in  this  constant  discussion  at  the  front  of 
the  stage,  this  hesitation,  this  groping. 

Soon  tiring  of  repeating  the  same  words  again 
and  again,  he  contents  himself  with  a  mere  sug- 
gestion of  his  gestures  and  tones,  and  if  you  re- 
prove him,  he  replies  with  a  smile: 

" Never  fear.     That 's  not  the  way  I  shall  act." 


3o8     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 

Unluckily  bad  habits  are  acquired  more  easily 
than  they  are  abandoned,  and  you  may  be  sure 
that  it  is  just  the  way  he  will  act.  Sometimes, 
again,  this  study  of  a  work  lasts  so  long,  every- 
body is  so  bored  and  exhausted,  that  you  are 
compelled  to  stop  work  several  days  before  the 
performance  and  leave  an  interval  between  the 
first  and  last  rehearsals. 

Such  interruption  almost  always  has  an  unfortu- 
nate effect.  How  many  suggestions  have  been  for- 
gotten and  must  be  repeated,  how  many  faults  have 
become  inveterate,  ineradicable,  and,  above  all, 
how  much  of  the  author's  time  has  been  wasted ! 

Indeed,  far  too  little  thought  is  given  to  the 
cost  in  hours,  days,  months,  entailed  by  the  prep- 
aration of  a  historical  work,  to  the  time  required 
to  write  it,  to  procure  its  acceptance,  and,  lastly, 
to  have  it  properly  rehearsed ! 

But  is  it  absolutely  essential  that  the  author 
should  attend  all  rehearsals.'*  Most  assuredly, 
especially  when  the  study  of  his  play  is  unduly 
protracted.  If  he  is  absent  the  actors  lose  inter- 
est in  his  work.  He  must  be  there,  always  there, 
to  sustain  and  encourage  them,  to  compliment 
them,  to  take  the  place  of  the  absent  audience, 
the  glare  of  the  footlights,  and  the  applause. 

It  is  no  trivial  task;  and  when  he  has  performed 
that  duty  forty  or  fifty  days  in  succession,  the 
unhappy  author  ends  by  execrating  his  work. 

Another  thing  that  seems  to  us  a  great  abuse  is 
the  dress  rehearsal, —  at  all  events,  as  it  is  usually 
conducted. 


Stage-Setting  and  Rehearsals,        309 

At  the  present  time  it  is  simply  a  sort  of  first 
performance  "before  letter,"  where  the  friends 
of  the  author,  of  the  manager,  of  the  actors,  are 
convoked  to  applaud  the  play  and  predict  for  it  an 
immense  success. 

Given  under  such  conditions,  on  the  day  before 
or  perhaps  the  very  day  of  the  first  nigJit,  these 
rehearsals  iri  extremis  can  be  of  no  benefit  to  any- 
body but  scene-shifters  and  costumers. 

The  dressmaker  makes  sure  that  the  ingenue' s 
apron  with  shoulder  straps  reflects  the  light  pret- 
tily. The  gasman  determines  in  consultation 
with  the  decorator  how  high  the  footlights  shall 
be  turned  up.  The  leader  of  the  claque  indicates 
to  his  lieutenants  the  speeches  to  be  applauded, 
the  entries  to  be  made  for  the  actors. 

But  in  what  way  can  this  dress  rehearsal  benefit 
the  author.^  To  no  purpose  are  all  the  chande- 
liers in  the  hall  lighted ;  the  poor  devil  is  uncon- 
scious of  it  all.  His  play  is  so  familiar  to  him, 
he  is  so  accustomed  to  the  voices  and  gestures  of 
the  actors,  that  he  can  no  longer  distinguish  the 
good  from  the  bad,  and  submits  in  every  point  to 
the  decisions  of  the  stage  authorities. 

And  his  friends.?  On  such  an  occasion  friends 
are  debarred  from  giving  their  opinion,  for  several 
reasons.  The  first  is  that  on  a  dress  rehearsal 
day  few  persons  are  able  to  remain  clear-headed 
and  give  an  opinion  of  any  value. 

There  is  so  much  difference  between  a  play 
acted  before  a  small  group  of  friends  and  the 
same  play  acted  before  a  crowded  theatre.     The 


3IO     Betwee7i  the  Flies  mid  the  Footlights, 

acoustic  properties  are  entirely  different.  They 
who  listened  to  you  yesterday  were  in  the  secret, 
a  chosen  band;  to-day  you  have  before  you  a 
crowd  of  twelve  to  fifteen  hundred  auditors,  and 
they  are  far  more  difficult  to  arouse. 

In  all  the  contrary  currents  that  run  hither  and 
thither  in  a  crowded  hall,  the  interest  in  your 
drama  seems  to  be  scattered,  disseminated,  and 
you  are  amazed  to  find  that  a  phrase  which  had 
produced  a  tremendous  effect  at  the  dress  re- 
hearsal the  day  before  falls  flat  on  the  first  night, 
as  if  stifled  by  lack  of  space  and  air. 

Everybody  is  misled  by  these  infernal  rehears- 
als, the  oldest  actors,  the  most  experienced  man- 
agers. How  can  the  author's  friends,  blinded  by 
their  friendship,  fail  to  be  deceived  t  Moreover, 
assuming  that  anybody  did  retain  his  clearness  of 
vision,  what  good  would  it  do  the  day  before  the 
performance?  By  all  means,  go  to  an  author 
overwhelmed  with  fatigue,  with  vexations  of  all 
sorts,  who  sees  the  end  of  his  agony  close  at  hand, 
go  to  actors  who  are  always  sure  of  themselves, 
go  to  a  manager  who  has  already  sold  half  of  his 
house,  and  try  to  make  them  believe  that  their 
play  offends  in  this  or  that  place,  that  a  whole 
act  must  be  rewritten,  and  the  production  post- 
poned for  a  fortnight. 

You  will  be  looked  upon  as  a  jealous  fellow,  a 
marplot,  and  they  will  be  very  careful  not  to 
heed  what  you  say.  The  wisest  course,  therefore, 
is  to  hold  your  peace,  since  anything  you  might 
suggest  would  come  too  late  and  do  no  good. 


Stage- Set ti7tg  and  Rehearsals,        3 1 1 

Once  or  twice,  however,  I  have  seen,  at  the 
end  of  a  dress  rehearsal,  an  author,  illumined  by 
a  sudden  flash  of  intelligence,  admit  that  his  play 
was  too  long. 

*'Very  well!  let  us  cut  it,"  said  the  manager. 

Whereupon  everybody  at  once  took  a  hand  in 
the  work. 

They  cut,  they  pruned,  they  exploded  the  mine, 
and  whole  scenes  blew  up  during  the  night.  But 
as  it  was  all  done  in  too  great  a  hurry,  it  was 
apparent  on  the  evening  of  the  performance  that 
the  whole  edifice  had  been  jarred  by  the  shock, 
and  that  the  drama  was  no  longer  firm  on  its  feet. 

In  my  humble  opinion,  in  order  that  the  dress 
rehearsal  may  serve  any  purpose  whatever,  it 
should  take  place  as  soon  as  the  play  is  learned 
and  rough-hewn,  when  the  actors  no  longer 
rehearse  manuscript  in  hand. 

Many  things  still  remain  to  be  finished  and 
polished;  but  these  matters  of  detail  are  not 
what  decide  the  success  or  failure  of  a  work.  Such 
as  it  is,  it  can  then  be  judged  as  a  whole,  and  the 
impression  is  still  soft  enough  to  make  it  an  easy 
matter  to  retouch  the  faulty  places,  which  are 
more  readily  apparent  to  less  fatigued  or  less 
prejudiced  eyes. 

3.  ' 

A  theatrical  anecdote  to  conclude  this  study  of 

rehearsals : 

Scene,  the  actors'  lobby  of  a  great   Parisian 

theatre,  in  the  daytime.     The   members   of  the 


3 1 2     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

company  are  chatting  after  rehearsal,  before  sepa- 
rating. The  actresses  one  after  another  take 
their  shawls  or  cloaks,  which  they  had  tossed 
carelessly  on  the  seats  or  backs  of  chairs  when 
they  arrived.     Suddenly  one  of  them  exclaims : 

"  I  have  been  robbed ;  some  one  has  taken  my 
purse." 

Intense  excitement ;  every  one  rises. 

A  theft  is  a  rare  thing  at  the  theatre,  and 
actors  freely  declare,  with  artless  and  touching 
pride,  that  their  profession  is  the  only  one  un- 
represented at  the  galleys.  Imagine,  therefore, 
the  indignant  glances  and  protestations.  There 
were  venerable  noble  fathers  there,  as  old  as  the 
oldest  chair  in  the  theatre,  who  stammered  with 
emotion  and  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

Some  one  said : 

"Let  us  all  be  searched;  let  no  one  leave  the 
room ! " 

Every  one  instinctively  prepared  to  turn  his 
pockets  inside  out. 

A  single  one,  a  young  actor  of  some  celebrity, 
refused.  Standing  erect,  with  his  head  in  the 
air,  like  a  rooster  shaking  his  comb  he  cried: 

"I,  Saturnin,  allow  myself  to  be  searched!  — 
what  becomes  of  the  artist's  dignity.?  " 

Thereupon  he  left  the  room,  stiff  as  a  ramrod, 
his  coat  tightly  buttoned,  with  a  noble  bearing  in 
which  familiarity  with  the  stage  counted  for 
something,  leaving  all  his  comrades  flushed  and 
confused  by  such  a  lesson  in  dignity. 

But  the  culprit  must  be  found  none  the  less. 


Stage-Setting  and  Rehearsals.        313 

Life  became  unendurable  in  that  little  world; 
there  were  furtive  glances,  words  whispered  in 
the  ear,  and  the  most  virtuous  felt  that  they 
were  under  suspicion.  The  lowest  employes, 
machinists,  firemen,  gasmen,  who  have  free  access 
to  every  corner  of  the  theatre  at  all  times,  fearing 
that  they  might  be  suspected,  swore  to  find  the 
thief  for  the  honor  of  their  craft.  A  secret  sys- 
tem of  espionage  was  organized;  from  hour  to 
hour  the  circle  of  suspicion  became  narrower. 

Did  the  villain  suspect  something.'*  Did  he 
mean  to  get  rid  of  the  purse,  to  throw  it  into  some 
corner  where  the  attendants  would  find  it,  or  had 
he  hidden  it  on  the  day  of  the  theft  and  was  he 
simply  coming  to  get  it  ?  This  much  is  certain, 
that  one  evening,  during  the  performance,  he 
crept  into  the  property  store-room  and  thrust  his 
arm  under  a  pile  of  old  rope.  A  hand  seized  his ; 
the  purse  was  in  it. 

"  Nabbed,  Monsieur  Saturnin  !"  said  the  hoarse, 
jeering  voice  of  the  chief  machinist. 

The  other  stammered,  implored,  struggled; 
but  the  machinist  held  him  fast,  exclaiming,  — 

"  Ah !  you  rascal !  I  've  had  my  eye  on  you  for 
a  week." 

"Let  me  go,  let  me  go,  in  God's  namel"  said 
the  poor  devil.     "  You  hear  them  calling  me." 

The  monitor  was  in  fact  hurrying  through  the 
corridors,  calling, — 

"You're  wanted,  Saturnin, — your  cue,  Satur- 
nin!" 

The  audience  waxed  impatient.     They  looked 


3 1 4     Between  the  Flies  a7id  the  Footlights, 

everywhere  for  Saturnin.  At  last  his  comrades 
discovered  him  in  the  store-room,  struggling 
under  the  harpoon  of  the  sturdy  whaler.  The 
manager  ran  to  the  spot,  attracted  by  the  tumult. 

**  Well,  well.  Play  your  part  first;  we  '11  have 
an  explanation  afterwards." 

And  he  pushed  the  miserable  wretch  onto  the 
stage,  where,  despite  his  terror  and  his  shame, 
hearing  the  story  of  his  infamy  run  through  the 
corridors,  divining,  behind  each  upright,  scorn- 
ful eyes  fastened  upon  him,  he  was  forced  to  act 
and  did  act,  as  well  as  ever,  better,  perhaps, 
lashed  as  he  was  by  fever,  his  great  scene  in  Les 
Faux  Bons-homines. 

That  was  the  last  time.  He  had  a  wife  and 
daughter,  and  the  affair  was  hushed  up;  but  he 
was  never  seen  again  on  any  Parisian  stage. 


Drunkenness  on  the  Stage.  315 


VI. 

DRUNKENNESS  ON  THE  STAGE. 

It  is  always  very  difficult  to  represent  drunken- 
ness on  the  stage,  the  actor  being  drawn  in  differ- 
ent directions  by  the  desire  to  be  true  to  nature 
and  the  fear  of  offending  good  taste.  For,  in 
truth,  how  pitiable  is  the  spectacle  of  that  wilful 
debasement,  of  that  temporary  madness  which 
man  brings  upon  himself!  To  be  sure,  there  is 
something  comical  in  that  self-abandonment  of 
the  human  being,  that  faltering  in  speech  and 
movement,  in  the  awkward  antics,  the  falls,  the 
insane  freaks  of  drunkenness,  but  the  comicality 
is  so  heartrending  that  one  can  rarely  disguise 
the  distastefulness  and  horror  of  the  situation 
with  the  aid  of  laughter. 

On  hearing  Schneider,  the  illustrious  diva  of 
Meilhac  and  Hal6vy's  operas,  stammer  between 
two  hiccoughs:  "/  am  a  little  tipsy ;  Jmsh  !  you 
must  not  telly''  —  and  seeing  her  fill  the  whole 
stage  with  her  unsteady  gait  and  her  befuddled 
face,  one  could  but  think  of  the  people  coming 
out  of  a  night  restaurant  in  carnival  time,  when 
all  the  druggists'  shops  are  closed,  and  they  are 
unable,  unfortunately,  to  procure  a  drop  of 
ammonia. 


3 1 6     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

On  the  other  hand,  how  well  Dupuis,  on  the 
same  stage,  in  Les  Millions  de  Gladiator^  acted 
the  slight  intoxication  which  follows  a  good  din- 
ner, at  which  one  has  drunk  a  little  more  than  was 
necessary  to  quench  his  thirst;  how  eloquently 
young  Isidore's  tearful  expansiveness,  the  mobil- 
ity of  his  ideas,  his  tranquil  contempt  of  life,  bore 
witness  to  the  generous  and  healthful  qualities 
of  the  vintage  he  had  abused ! 

And  Bressant's  drunkenness  in  the  Barber  of 
Seville  —  do  you  remember  it  ?  —  what  distinc- 
tion, what  good  humor,  what  respect  for  truth  and 
the  proprieties ! 

Madame  Marie-Laurent  herself,  before  taking 
part  in  the  Voleuse  d Enfants^  had  had  a  whole 
act  of  merry,  extravagant,  bumptious  drunkenness 
in  Les  Chevaliers  du  Brouillard ;  but  there  she 
represented  a  young  scamp  embellished  with  all 
the  vices,  and  the  travesty  facilitated  the  daring 
originality  of  the  role.  But  to  represent  in  Paris, 
before  a  French  audience  and  at  a  time  when 
comic  opera  had  not  made  us  proof  against  any 
eccentricity,  —  to  represent  a  woman  too  drunk  to 
stand,  was  a  difficult  and  ticklish  undertaking. 
The  actress  hesitated  a  long  while  before  under- 
taking to  create  the  part;  and  when  she  had  once 
made  up  her  mind,  she  determined  to  cover  up 
the  odium  of  the  impersonation  by  carrying  it  to 
that  pitch  of  ghastly  reality  which  becomes  true 
art  by  virtue  of  accuracy,  conscientiousness,  and 
impulsive  earnestness. 

Her  first  idea  was  to  go  to  London,  to  study 


Drunkenness  on  the  Stage.  317 

the  stupefying  effects  of  gin  in  the  slums  of  the 
great  city;  but  as  she  had  not  the  leisure  for  the 
journey,  she  contented  herself  with  scrutinizing 
the  common  people  of  Paris,  who,  although  they 
have  no  gin,  have  their  vile  barrier  wines,  perni- 
cious and  destructive,  and  absinthe  and  bitters, 
an  endless  variety  of  dangerous  adulterations, 
which  display  their  poisoned  colors  behind  the 
dirty  windows  of  the  cabarets. 

You  should  see  the  working-men  on  their  way 
to  work,  at  daybreak,  on  the  outer  boulevards, 
crowding  around  the  doors  of  the  wine-shops  al- 
most before  they  are  open,  and  tossing  off  large 
glasses  of  white  eau-de-vie  —  what  they  call  "the 
drop  "  —  to  temper  the  cold,  damp  air  of  a  Pari- 
sian morning.  And  such  a  drop  !  if  a  little  of  that 
liquid  overflows  on  the  zinc  counter,  it  leaves  a 
corrosive  blue  stain,  like  the  mark,  still  hot, 
made  by  a  lighted  match.  Imagine  that  stuff 
pouring  into  a  poor  empty  stomach.  '*  It  wakes 
you  up !  "  as  they  say.  Alas  !  it  bestializes  even 
more  surely,  and  ere  long  the  drunkenness  of 
Paris  will  have  no  reason  to  envy  the  London 
article. 

Often,  on  leaving  the  theatre,  Marie-Laurent 
and  her  husband  would  follow  for  hours  some 
wretched  sot,  who  reeled  against  the  wall  as  he 
walked,  waving  his  hands,  haranguing  the  closed 
doors,  shouting  his  dream  aloud,  an  incoherent 
dream,  sometimes  full  of  animation,  sometimes 
melancholy.  She  would  study  the  evolutions  of 
that  bewildered  will,  as  it  dragged  the  body  in 


3 1 8     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

every  direction,  until  at  last,  exhausted,  van- 
quished, it  propped  him  up  against  a  post  or 
stretched  him  at  full  length  on  the  edge  of  the 
sidewalk,  pale  and  dazed,  v^ith  a  fixed  grimace  of 
fatigue  and  suffering.  Every  day  the  artist 
observed  some  new  detail,  some  new  gesture; 
but  as  she  departed  from  the  conventional  to 
enter  into  the  real,  she  was  more  and  more  dis- 
mayed by  the  grim  ghastliness  of  the  task.  "  It 
isn't  possible,"  she  said  to  herself;  "the  audience 
will  never  let  me  go  on  to  the  end." 

So  it  was  that  never,  in  any  other  of  her  crea- 
tions, had  she  been  assailed  by  such  an  overpower- 
ing dread  as  on  the  first  night  of  the  Volense 
d  EnfantSy  when  she  made  her  appearance  in  the 
sixth  tableau.  She  entered  at  the  rear,  through 
a  doorway  several  steps  above  the  stage.  Her 
alarm  was  heightened  by  the  necessity  of  mak- 
ing that  difficult  descent  characteristically,  and 
according  to  rule. 

Dressed  in  a  marvellously  hideous  costume,  all 
rags  and  tatters,  horrible  in  her  bewilderment 
and  pallor,  clinging  to  the  rail,  pitching  forward, 
holding  herself  back,  she  reached  the  foot  of  the 
staircase  without  a  sign  from  the  audience  to 
indicate  its  impression. 

That  glacial  silence  disturbed  the  actress.  She 
had  expected  that  as  soon  as  she  appeared  the 
audience  would  be  enthusiastic  or  disgusted,  and 
would  show  it  instantly. 

Nothing  of  the  sort.  Utter  stupefaction  reigned 
supreme.     The  people  watched  and  waited. 


Drmikeniiess  on  the  Stage.  319 

Oh, "  how  long  the  descent  of  those  six  stairs 
seemed  to  her !  "  If  I  had  walked  from  the  Made- 
leine to  the  Bastille,"  she  said  afterward,  "I 
should  not  have  been  so  exhausted  as  when  I 
reached  the  foot  of  that  terible  staircase." 

Those  are,  in  very  truth,  terrible  moments  for 
the  actor,  who  sees  all  those  faces  leaning  forward 
or  raised  toward  him,  and  those  myriads  of  glances 
in  which  he  can  read  naught  save  an  expression 
of  suspense,  of  eager  but  ill-defined  curiosity. 

But  when  she  reached  the  front  of  the  stage, 
when  the  audience,  confronted  by  that  ghastly 
image  of  drunkenness,  by  that  pallid  mask,  dis- 
torted by  horrible  internal  burns,  those  great  eyes 
shooting  flames,  that  black  hair  glued  to  the  head 
by  the  mud  of  the  gutter  in  which  it  had  dragged 
again  and  again,  —  when  the  audience  suddenly 
realized  that  that  bundle  of  rags  was  alive,  aye, 
that  it  was  suffering,  and  that  they  had  not  before 
them  a  vile  sot  but  one  of  the  damned,  forgotten 
by  God,  who  bore  her  hell  within  her,  then  they 
were  deeply  moved,  they  overflowed  with  pity  and 
enthusiasm,  and  rewarded  the  brave  actress  with 
prolonged  applause. 


320    Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 


VII. 

SIXTY  YEARS   ON  THE  STAGE. 

In  his  preface  to  Bouffe's  Souvenirs^  Monsieur 
Legouve  tells  this  anecdote: 

"  Some  one  asked  Brunet,  who  had  retired  at 
eighty-four,  and  had  since  lived  in  the  country: 
*  How  do  you  pass  your  time  in  your  solitude.-* ' 

" '  I  review  my  roles. ' 

"His  rdles!  Jocrisse  and  the  like  on  the 
threshold  of  eternity!  Face  to  face  with  God! 
The  idea  makes  me  shudder." 

With  due  deference  to  the  eloquent  and  witty 
academician,  he  has  unearthed  a  pulpit  effect,  an 
outburst  a  la  Bridaine,  more  striking  than  pro- 
found, which  will  not  bear  analysis.  When  old 
Brunet,  that  fanatical  actor,  whose  ambition  was 
"to  die  in  the  glare  of  the  footlights,"  mumbled 
over  hisjocrisseries,  he  was  trying  to  find  between 
the  lines  his  old  theatrical  life,  an  echo  of  the 
jovial  days  and  the  triumphs  of  his  youth;  and 
the  stupidest  joke,  the  most  vapid  nonsense,  the 
suggestion  of  a  grimace  or  a  gesture,  had  for  him 
a  mysterious,  reminiscent  meaning  and  brought  to 
his  face  the  flush  of  3.  first  night,  of  a  theatre  filled 
to  the  roof.  It  is  the  memory-call  which  every 
one  beats  in  his  own  way. 


Sixty  Years  on  the  Stage,  321 

To  the  old  actor,  even  when  he  is  face  to  face 
with  God,  there  is  no  greater  pleasure  than  to 
open  and  turn  over  the  old  repertory,  which  is  so 
wound  up  in  the  artist's  existence  that  he  cannot 
touch  one  of  his  roles  without  bringing  to  mind 
some  date,  some  cherished  memory,  or  touching 
some  vibrating  note  in  the  tender  recesses  of  his 
heart.  Do  not  smile  at  the  name  of  Ababa- 
Patapouf,  for  it  reminds  Boiiffe  of  his  appearance 
in  La  Petite  Lampe  Merveilleiise  in  1822,  his  first 
great  success,  of  Brunet  and  Vernet  coming  up 
to  his  dressing-room  to  embrace  him,  while  Pere 
Ch6del,  puffing  out  his  shirt-front,  pompously 
gives  him  to  understand  that  his  salary  is  doubled 
from  that  day,  raised  from  fifteen  hundred  to 
three  thousand  francs. 

O  miracle  of  love  1 

Three  thousand  francs,  the  exact  amount  de- 
manded by  Charlotte's  parents! 

"  I  would  have  liked  to  go  at  once  to  the  Gil- 
berts', to  tell  them  the  happy  news;  but  it  was 
midnight,  hardly  a  suitable  hour  for  a  call.  So 
I  had  to  wait  until  the  next  day;  it  was  a  very 
long  time.  I  made  haste  to  change  my  clothes 
and  wash  off  the  paint;  but  I  had  entirely  for- 
gotten that  a  razor  had  deprived  me  of  my  hair. 
When  I  saw  that  I  was  completely  bald,  I  cried : 
'  Ah  !  my  God  !  how  ugly  I  am  !  I  cannot  appear 
before  my  bride  that  is  to  be  with  this  hideous 
head ! '  —  I  looked  among  my  wigs,  but  the  one 
that  I  wore  as  Lubin  in  La  Bonne  Mhe  was  the 
only  one  that  resembled  in  the  least  a  civilized 


32  2     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

head  of  hair;  and  it  was  longer  and  lighter  than 
mine.  I  was  an  utterly  ridiculous  object.  How- 
ever, that  did  not  prevent  our  wedding  taking 
place  a  few  weeks  later,  on  the  same  day  as  that 
of  my  younger  sister,  who  married  the  foreman 
of  my  father's  shop." 

And  there  is  Rigolard,  Uncle  Rigolard,  one  of 
the  most  comical  of  all  his  creations  —  if  you 
knew  what  gloomy  visions  he  evokes  from  the  old 
actor's  past! 

On  the  day  before  the  first  performance,  his 
eldest  daughter,  a  little  darling  of  five,  was  taken 
with  a  fever,  with  a  hoarse,  hard  cough,  which 
racked  her  frame  all  night.  It  was  the  croup ;  but 
the  doctor  at  the  theatre,  who  was  sent  for  in  the 
morning,  dared  not  say  so  for  fear  of  interfering 
with  the  performance,  and  so  poor  Rigolard,  with 
his  mind  at  rest,  ran  upon  the  stage,  his  dancing- 
master's  kit  in  his  hand,  with  smiles  and  capers 
and  pirouettes. 

"The  instant  that  I  appeared,  and  before  I  had 
said  a  word,  there  was  an  outburst  of  applause. 
Dejazet  and  Lafont  were  on  the  stage;  during 
the  uproar,  which  made  it  impossible  for  me  to 
begin  my  lines,  I  took  a  hand  of  each  of  my 
generous  comrades  and,  hardly  able  to  stand,  said 
to  them  :  *  My  daughter  is  dead  ! '  '* 

He  was  not  mistaken.  His  child  was  dead; 
and  the  audience,  advised  of  the  sad  news  before 
the  father,  instinctively  gave  that  proof  of  sym- 
pathy with  his  grief. 

As  we  see,  Bouff6,  in  writing  this  artless  and 


Sixty  Years  on  the  Stage.  323 

touching  memento  of  his  life,  did  nothing  more 
than  review  his  roles,  like  Brimet.  And  they 
are  not  all  personal  reminiscences  which  he  dis- 
covers therein;  sometimes  there  is  a  historical 
date,  some  Parisian  incident,  a  scandal  of  the 
street  or  the  Chambers,  like  the  expulsion  of 
Manuel  and  the  famous  "seize  that  man,"^  which 
had  its  echo  in  an  artist's  peaceful  life. 

It  happened  that  on  the  very  evening  of  that 
parliamentary  quarrel,  he  was  acting  in  Trigolini 
the  part  of  a  pompous  old  fool  of  an  alcalde,  who 
had  to  say  several  times :  "  Seize  that  man  ! "  ^ 
You  can  imagine  that  he  did  not  resist  the  temp- 
tation to  do  a  little  violence  to  his  lines  and  to 
repeat  exactly  the  memorable  words  of  the  gen- 
darme Foucault,  the  hero  of  the  day. 

"These  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  my  mouth 
than  there  was  a  thunder  of  applause;  shouts, 
bravos,  cries  of  ^  encore!  encore!^  arose  from  all 
parts  of  the  hall.  Oh!  then  I  realized  that  I  had 
committed  a  grave,  very  grave  indiscretion.  I 
would  have  been  only  too  glad  to  recall  my 
words,  but  the  shouts  of  *  encore !  encore ! '  came 
faster  and  faster,  and  I  could  not  complete  my 
part  until  I  had  repeated  that  unfortunate  phrase. 
On  returning  to  the  wings  I  found  there  Monsieur 
Gronfier,  commissioner  of  police,  with  a  gendarme 
on  either  side;  he  accosted  me  very  roughly, 
and  in  spite  of  all  the  arguments  I  could  bring 
forward,  drew  up  a  report.     It  goes  without  say- 

1  Empoignez-moi  cet  homme. 

2  Emparez-vous  de  cet  hotnme-lh. 


324     Betwee7t  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 

ing  that  the  audience  recalled  me  at  the  close  of 
Trigolini.  The  incident  of  the  commissioner  had 
been  noised  about  through  the  hall;  the  people 
knew  that  he  proposed  to  take  me  into  custody  at 
the  end  of  the  play,  and  there  was  some  talk  of 
resisting  my  arrest.  Some  voices  were  injudi- 
cious enough  to  shout :  *  They  sha'n't  seize  you  ! '  ^ 
All  these  demonstrations  served  simply  to  inflame 
the  wrath  of  Monsieur  Gronfier,  who  said  to  me 
in  a  very  severe  tone,  as  soon  as  the  curtain  had 
fallen,  — 

"*Go  and  change  your  clothes,  monsieur;  I 
have  a  carriage  waiting  for  you.' 

"Escorted  by  my  gendarme,  I  went  to  my 
dressing-room ;  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  entered 
the  government  cab.  An  enormous  crowd  had 
gathered  in  Rue  Basse-du-Temple  behind  the 
theatre.  They  were  altogether  too  zealous  and 
were  shouting  at  the  tops  of  their  voices,  — 

"  *  Down  with  the  gendarmes !  down  with  the 
commissioner! ' 

"The  driver  lashed  his  horses  —  " 

And  poor  Bouff6  passed  his  night  at  the  sta- 
tion, in  the  midst  of  the  herd  of  human  cattle 
weltering  there;  then,  in  the  morning,  being 
taken  by  two  gendarmes  to  the  examining  magis- 
trates' corridor,  he  was  sharply  questioned  and  lec- 
tured, and  finally  dismissed,  with  explicit  orders 
to  hold  himself  at  the  disposal  of  the  authorities. 
Thus  were  actors  treated  under  the  paternal 
regime  of  the  Restoration;  nor  was  the  bureau- 

1  On  ne  vous  e?nJ)oignera  pas ! 


Sixty  Years  on  the  Stage,  325 

cratic  government   of   the  Second  Empire  much 
more  considerate  of  them. 

One  day,  in  1854,  Bouff^,  who  had  been  kept 
off  the  stage  several  years  by  a  distressing  ner- 
vous trouble,  determined  to  take  advantage  of  a 
lull  in  his  disease  and  appear  at  the  Porte-Saint- 
Martin  in  one  of  his  favourite  parts.  Unfortu- 
nately the  license  of  that  theatre  did  not  allow 
vaudeville  to  be  played  there;  and  the  minister, 
Monsieur  Fould,  a  sort  of  petty  autocrat,  like  the 
old  alcalde  in  Trigolini,  persisted  in  an  inflexi- 
ble and  inexplicable  refusal  to  extend  its  terms. 
Thereupon  the  great  artist  remembered  that,  when 
he  was  acting  in  London  some  years  before.  Prince 
Louis  had  called  upon  him  in  his  dressing-room 
and  complimented  him ;  he  wrote  at  once  to  the 
Emperor  to  remind  him  of  the  incident,  intrusted 
his  letter  to  Princess  Mathilde,  and  received,  a 
few  days  later,  a  solemn  official  assurance  that 
his  interests  were  being  forwarded  by  those  in 
high  places,  and  that  he  would  receive  forthwith 
the  desired  authorisation  from  the  minister. 

"  It  is  most  astonishing,"  says  the  author  of  the 
SouvenirSy  "that,  despite  the  Emperor's  wish  and 
command,  I  could  not  obtain  the  authorisation 
promised,  although  I  waited  a  fortnight  and  paid 
ten  visits  to  the  department." 

And  that  is  all,  —  not  a  word  of  indignation, 
not  a  complaint;  he  does  not  return  to  the  subject 
of  his  ill-fortune  except  to  call  down  a  thousand 
and  a  thousand  blessings  on  the  name  of  Monsieur 
Camille  Doucet,  whose  intervention  in  his   favor 


326     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

at  last  procured  for  him,  after  weeks  of  mental 
suffering  and  running  hither  and  thither,  the 
permission  denied  to  the  Emperor. 

The  book  is  written  from  the  first  page  to 
the  last  in  this  tone  of  good  humor  and  serenity. 
Bad  faith  of  managers,  jealousy  of  comrades, 
injustice  of  press  or  public,  everything  passes 
lightly  over  that  angelic  disposition.  There  is 
barely  a  flash  of  indignation  against  Laferriere, 
who  played  him  the  scurvy  trick  of  producing 
one  of  his  plays  on  the  eve  of  his  arrival  at 
Saint-Quentin;  indeed,  there  is  more  sorrow  than 
anger  in  his  narrative  of  that  far-away  injury. 

Happy  is  the  man  in  whom  life,  after  nearly  a 
century  of  disasters  and  mortifications,  has  not 
left  the  least  rancor,  and  who  remembers  only  to 
admire  and  to  bless.  He  has  known  none  but 
excellent  people ;  he  has  grasped  none  but  loyal 
hands.  Was  it  an  illusion  of  his  gentle  nature, 
or  did  the  crabbed  humor  of  certain  of  his  fellow- 
men  really  melt  in  the  warmth  of  his  heart.? 

We  can  almost  believe  it  when  we  hear  him 
speak  of  Roqueplan,  whom  he  knew  well,  as  the 
most  upright,  the  most  accommodating  of  men, 
credulous  and  kindly,  easily  moved. 

"What  a  charming  disposition  and  how  pleas- 
ant our  relations  were  during  the  four  years  I 
passed  under  his  management !  It  seemed  to  me 
as  if  I  were  in  Paradise." 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  this  Nestor  to  the  Cardail- 
hac  of  the  Nabob,  the  sceptical,  cold-blooded  Pro- 
vengal,  a  blackthorn  staff  hardened  in  the  flame 


Sixty  Years  07i  the  Stage.  327 

of  the  footlights,  trampling  upon  life  like  a  side- 
walk, with  his  hat  on  one  side  and  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  not  the  shadow  of  a  superstition 
in  his  whole  body.  But,  bless  my  soul !  if  we 
should  all  look  at  men  and  places  through  the 
same  spectacles,  our  observations  could  all  be 
contained  in  a  single  book  and  the  world  would 
die  of  ennui. 

Among  these  souvenirs  of  Bouffd  we  are  es- 
pecially charmed  with  those  of  his  youth,  his 
apprenticeship  in  the  Marais,  in  his  father's 
gilding-shop.  There  is  in  these  pages  a  whole 
corner  of  industrial  Paris,  the  petty  bourgeois 
Paris  of  the  early  days  of  the  Restoration,  intoxi- 
cated with  peace  and  well-being,  thinking  only  of 
work  and  amusement,  now  that  the  blood  of  the 
great  war  has  at  last  ceased  to  flow. 

The  whole  quarter  is  filled  with  society  thea- 
tres: the  Theatre  Mareux  on  Rue  Saint-Antoine, 
opposite  Rue  de  Jouy;  the  Theatre  Doyen,  Rue 
Transnonain;  another  on  Rue  de  Paradis,  man- 
aged by  Thierry,  a  painter  of  buildings;  another 
on  Rue  Mauconseil  in  a  shoe  factory,  amid  boxes 
filled  with  lasts,  which  sometimes  fell  on  the 
stage  with  a  thunderous  uproar;  and  another  on 
Rue  Aubry-le-Boucher,  at  Simonnet's,  a  dancing- 
master's,  and  in  the  house  formerly  belonging  to 
Provost's  father,  the  Provost  of  the  Comedie- 
Francaise. 

It  was  by  haunting  all  these  bouis-botiis  that 
young  Bouffe  caught  the  stage  fever,  and  also  in 


328     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

the  shop  of  his  Aunt  Angelique,  costumer  at  the 
Ambigu;  but  his  new  passion  did  not  prevent  his 
working  faithfully  at  his  gilding.  His  father  was 
ill;  and  he,  the  "little  old  man,"  as  he  was  then 
called,  managed  the  whole  establishment  with 
the  sympathetic  good  humor,  the  ingenuous  and 
light-hearted  heroism  of  one  of  M^lesville's 
characters. 


Diderot's  Advice  to  an  Actress,     329 


VIII. 

DIDEROT'S  ADVICE  TO  AN  ACTRESS. 
I. 

This  Mademoiselle  Jodin,  whose  name  has  come 
down  to  posterity  among  Diderot's  luggage,  does 
not  seem  to  have  deserved,  by  virtue  of  her 
talents  or  her  character,  the  signal  honor  which 
the  philosopher  conferred  upon  her  by  being  her 
adviser  and  her  correspondent  for  four  years  in 
succession. 

The  daughter  of  a  clockmaker  of  Geneva,  who 
was  one  of  the  collaborators  in  the  Encyclop^die, 
and  whose  rigid  Protestantism  echoed  all  of  Jean- 
Jacques'  horror  of  the  stage  and  of  actors,  it  was 
not  until  her  father's  death  that  she  was  at  liberty 
to  yield  to  the  irresistible  attraction  which  the 
footlights  and  their  false  glare  exerted  upon 
her. 

As  soon  as  the  goodman  was  buried,  everything 
in  the  house  was  sold,  and  the  mother  and 
daughter,  equally  frivolous,  took  up  their  abode  in 
Paris,  where  the  warm  and  all-powerful  interest 
of  Diderot,  Pierre  Jodin's  former  collaborator, 
awaited  them.  Presumably  it  was  to  the  patron- 
age of  the  philosopher  and   his  friend   Grimm, 


330     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 

both  of  whom  were  very  influential  at  the  North- 
ern courts,  that  the  young  debutante  owed  her 
engagement  at  the  French  theatre  in  Warsaw;  at 
all  events,  during  her  stay  there  Diderot  wrote 
to  her  regularly,  advising  her,  sketching  for  her 
a  little  dramatic  code,  as  true  to-day  as  it  was 
a  hundred  years  ago,  scattered  here  and  there 
through  a  score  of  admirable  letters  which  our 
young  actresses  should  learn  by  heart. 

"  I  have  heard  you  but  little,  mademoiselle,  but 
it  has  seemed  to  me  that  I  can  discover  in  your 
acting  a  most  important  quality  which  may  be 
simulated  perhaps  by  cleverness  and  study,  but 
which  can  never  be  acquired;  a  mind  which  for- 
gets itself,  which  is  deeply  affected,  which  trans- 
ports itself  to  the  scene  of  the  drama,  which  is 
this  or  that  person  whom  it  represents,  which 
actually  sees  and  speaks  to  this  or  that  other 
character.  I  was  entirely  satisfied  when,  on 
recovering  from  a  violent  outburst  of  emotion, 
you  seemed  to  have  returned  from  a  long  dis- 
tance and  hardly  to  recognize  the  place  from 
which  you  had  set  out  and  the  objects  which  sur- 
rounded you." 

Despite  this  complimentary  tone,  with  which 
the  correspondence  opens,  it  is  easy  to  see  at  the 
outset  that  Diderot  has  no  very' exalted  opinion 
of  the  debutante's  talents.  From  the  way  he 
preaches  naturalness  and  simplicity,  we  can 
divine  a  provincial  style,  pretentious  and  noisy, 
with  her  arms  waving  over  her  head.  He  urges 
her  especially  to  moderate  her  gestures;  frequent 


Diderot's  Advice  to  an  Actress.     331 

gesticulation  impairs  energy  and  destroys  nobility 
of  bearing. 

"The  face,  the  eyes,  the  whole  body,  should 
move,  and  not  the  arms." 

And  this  recommendation  recurs  in  every 
paragraph : 

"Turn  your  attention  to  quiet  scenes." 

By  quiet  scenes  Diderot  meant  smooth,  deftly 
shaded  comedy  scenes,  in  which  the  actress  can 
show  taste,  delicacy,  judgment,  and  wit.  In  his 
view  ability  to  render  an  impassioned  passage  was 
almost  nothing  at  all;  the  poet  is  responsible  for 
half  of  the  effect. 

First  of  all,  one  must  study  the  accents,  the 
movements  of  nature,  that  primitive  language 
which  the  average  audience  understands,  grasps 
instantly.  The  meaning  of  a  fine  line  is  not 
within  the  reach  of  all ;  but  a  well-modulated  cry, 
a  sigh  from  the  very  depths  of  the  entrails, 
eloquent  glances,  a  natural  trembling  of  the 
hands,  of  the  voice,  —  those  are  the  touches  that 
stir  and  move  and  electrify  the  crowd. 

"I  wish  that  you  might  have  seen  Garrick  play 
the  part  of  a  father  who  has  let  his  child  fall  into 
a  well.  There  is  no  maxim  which  our  poets  have 
more  generally  forgotten  than  that  which  says 
that  great  sorrows  are  dumb.  Do  you  remember 
it  for  them,  in  order  to  palliate  by  your  acting 
the  impertinence  of  their  long  harangues.  It  lies 
wholly  within  your  power  to  produce  a  greater 
effect  by  silence  than  by  their  fine  words." 

The  next   letter  congratulates  the  actress  on 


332     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 

her  successful  beginning,  while  not  disguising  the 
fact  that  she  owes  it  in  part  to  the  lack  of  taste 
of  her  audiences  in  that  benighted  country.  She 
must  not  seek  to  please  the  Tartars  but  the  Athe- 
nians. Above  all,  let  us  get  rid  of  these  tragedy 
hiccoughs  which  she  would  palm  off  as  accents 
from  the  heart,  but  which  are  simply  a  paltry 
bit  of  stage  business,  fatiguing  and  unpleasant, 
a  trick  as  unendurable  on  the  stage  as  in  society. 
Watch  the  most  violent  of  mortals,  the  fiercest 
paroxysms  of  wrath,  you  will  never  see  anything 
of  the  sort.  Vow  a  mortal  hatred  against  what- 
ever is  false,  fictitious,  or  conventional. 

"Mademoiselle,  there  is  nothing  good  in  this 
world  except  what  is  true;  be  true  therefore  on 
the  stage,  and  true  off  the  stage." 

Let  her  study  women  in  society,  in  the  front 
rank  of  society,  if  she  is  fortunate  enough  to  be 
thrown  with  them ;  there  she  will  learn  ease  and 
grace  of  movement.  The  street,  the  people,  the 
thousand  varied  details  of  domestic  life,  observed 
near  at  hand,  will  suggest  the  real  attitudes  of 
passion,  the  action  and  accent  of  love,  jealousy, 
despair,  anger.  Let  her  carry  all  these  away  in 
her  eyes,  in  her  ears;  let  her  make  of  her  brain 
a  portfolio  for  all  these  pictures  ;  when  she  exhibits 
them  on  the  stage,  every  one  will  recognize  and 
applaud  them,  on  the  sole  condition  that  she  ex- 
presses just  what  she  feels,  and  never  tries  to  go 
beyond  that.     And  always  the  same  refrain : 

"Turn  your  attention  to  quiet  scenes." 

Few  actors  are  good  listeners,  preoccupied  as 


Diderot^ s  Advice  to  an  Actress.     333 

they  all  are  with  their  effect  on  the  public  and  a 
thousand  other  matters  which  have  no  connection 
with  the  stage.  Let  there  be  neither  foreground 
nor  background  so  far  as  Mademoiselle  Jodin  is 
concerned ;  let  her  consider  the  stage  strictly  as 
a  place  where  and  from  which  no  one  sees  her; 
she  must  have  the  courage  sometimes  to  turn  her 
back  to  the  spectator,  she  must  never  remember 
that  he  exists.  Every  actress  who  addresses  him 
deserves  to  have  a  voice  call  out  to  her  from  the 
pit:  "Mademoiselle,  I  am  not  here." 

It  is  also  important  not  to  aim  too  much  at  suc- 
cess. One  is  not  a  genuine  artist  unless  he  at- 
tempts, even  with  danger  to  himself,  to  accomplish 
bold  enterprises,  to  enjoy  a  pleasure  that  is  new 
and  altogether  his  own. 

In  view  of  the  general  tone  of  these  letters,  we 
wonder  if  Diderot  is  in  earnest  when  he  informs 
the  young  actress  of  Clairon's  final  retirement, 
and  suggests  to  her  that  the  vacant  place  is  a 
pleasant  one  to  occupy.  At  all  events,  it  is  cer- 
tain that  the  young  woman  took  it  seriously  and 
was  already  talking  of  cancelling  an  engagement 
in  order  to  return  to  France. 

The  master  energetically  dissuades  her.  She 
had  great  faults  when  she  went  away,  the  tragic 
hiccoughs,  a  general  lack  of  form ;  young  noble- 
men who  have  seen  her  in  Warsaw  assert  that 
she  has  contracted  a  habit  of  swaying  from  side 
to  side  that  is  altogether  unpleasant.  She  must 
return  to  Paris,  if  at  all,  with  all  her  faults  cor- 
rected,   otherwise    she    will    expose    herself    to 


334     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

painful  disappointments.  The  Parisian  public 
becomes  harder  to  please,  both  for  actors  and 
authors,  in  proportion  as  its  taste  is  led  astray. 
We  have  nothing  but  a  succession  of  unfortunate 
d6buts,  tumultuous  scenes,  flat  failures  amid 
hisses  and  laughter. 

The  next  letter  recurs  to  the  same  subject,  the 
necessity  of  perfecting  herself  before  thinking  of 
returning  to  Paris. 

Before  everything  she  must  study  the  quiet 
scene  —  does  it  not  seem  to  you  as  if  you  heard 
Sarcey  talking  about  the  scene  to  be  written?  To 
repeat  every  morning  by  way  of  morning  prayer 
the  scene  between  Athalie  and  Joas,  and  for  even- 
ing prayer  a  scene  or  two  between  Agrippine  and 
Neron;  for  benediction  the  first  scene  between 
Phedre  and  her  confidant.  She  must  never  con- 
tract mannerisms.  An  actress  may  cure  herself 
of  primness,  of  stiffness,  of  rusticity,  of  rigidity, 
of  lack  of  dignity;  she  can  never  cure  herself  of 
little  mannerisms  and  affectation. 

"  Be  emphatic  at  times,  for  so  the  poet  is ;  but 
not  so  often  as  he,  because  emphasis  is  almost 
never  natural;  it  is  an  overdone  imitation  of 
nature.  If  you  once  feel  that  Corneille  is  almost 
always  at  Madrid  and  almost  never  in  Rome,  you 
will  often  tone  down  his  wealth  of  verbiage  by 
simplicity,  and  the  characters  will  assume  in  your 
mouth  a  homogeneous,  frank,  unaffected  domestic 
heroism  which  they  almost  never  have  in  his 
plays.  Garrick  said  to  me  one  day  that  it  would 
be  impossible  for  him  to  play  any  of   Racine's 


Diderot's  Advice  to  an  Actress.     335 

roles,  that  his  sentences  resembled  great  serpents 
which  twined  themselves  about  an  actor.  Gar- 
rick's  idea  and  his  words  were  equally  judicious. 
Crush  Racine's  serpents ;  break  Corneille's  stilts." 
On  another  occasion  he  discusses  a  proposed 
engagement  of  Mademoiselle  Jodin  at  the  Imperial 
Theatre  at  St.  Petersburg.  The  terms  were  sixteen 
hundred  roubles,  equal  to  eight  thousand  francs 
of  French  money;  one  thousand  pistoles  for  the 
journey,  the  same  amount  for  the  return  journey. 
She  must  furnish  her  own  French,  Greek,  and 
Roman  costumes;  those  for  extraordinary  occa- 
sions will  be  supplied  from  the  court  wardrobe. 
The  engagement  is  to  be  for  five  years.  A  car- 
riage will  be  furnished  only  for  performances 
before  the  court.  The  bonuses  are  sometimes 
very  large,  but  she  must  earn  them  there  as  else- 
where. In  case  these  conditions  should  be  accept- 
able. Mademoiselle  Jodin  must  write  two  letters  a 
week  apart;  in  one  she  must  ask  for  more  than  is 
offered,  in  the  second  she  must  accept  uncondi- 
tionally. She  is  to  send  both  of  them  to  Diderot, 
who  will  at  first  produce  only  the  former.  And 
the  philosopher,  fearing  that  he  had  wounded  the 
provincial  by  the  unceremonious  way  in  which  he 
speaks  of  her  profession,  adds  in  one  of  those 
bursts  of  graceful  eloquence  which  are  peculiar 
to  him:  "If  I  had  the  mind,  the  voice,  and  the 
face  of  Quinault-Dufresne,  I  would  go  on  the 
stage  to-morrow,  and  I  should  esteem  it  a  greater 
honor  to  force  the  wicked  man  to  shed  tears  over 
persecuted  virtue  than  to  declaim  from  a  pulpit, 


33^     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

arrayed  in  a  surplice  and  square  cap,  pious  plati- 
tudes which  are  interesting  only  to  the  simpletons 
who  believe  them.  Your  morals  are  of  all  times, 
all  peoples,  all  countries;  theirs  change  a  hun- 
dred times  within  very  narrow  limits." 

This  enthusiasm  for  the  actor's  profession  did 
not  prevent  Diderot  from  writing  some  time  after 
to  his  young  friend,  whom  a  caprice  had  impelled 
to  leave  the  stage  and  whom  another  caprice  had 
led  back  to  it : 

"  I  should  not  dare  to  approve  your  venture  in 
the  dramatic  line ;  I  can  see  no  great  advantage 
in  success,  and  I  can  see  a  very  serious  disadvan- 
tage in  failure." 

Farther  on  he  attempts  again  to  induce  her  to 
abandon  her  project : 

"No  more  plays,  no  more  theatre,  no  more  dis- 
sipation, no  more  follies.  A  small  apartment 
with  plenty  of  fresh  air  in  some  quiet  corner  of 
the  city,  a  sober  and  healthful  diet,  a  few  sure 
friends,  a  little  reading,  a  little  music,  much 
exercise  and  walking,  —  these  are  suggestions 
which  when  it  is  too  late  you  will  wish  that  you 
had  followed." 

We  are  compelled  to  believe  that  this  idyllic 
prospect  did  not  tempt  Mademoiselle  Jodin,  for  on 
May  II,  1769,  Diderot  writes  to  congratulate  her 
on  her  debut  at  the  Grand  Theatre  at  Bordeaux, 
at  the  same  time  calling  her  attention  to  the  dif- 
ference between  that  stage  and  the  stage  of  the 
Comedie-Frangaise : 

"  I  wish  that  you  could  have  obtained  here,  on 


Diderot's  Advice  to  an  Actress,     337 

the  stage  with  Mademoiselle  Clairon  or  Mademoi- 
selle Dumesnil,  the  public  applause  that  you  have 
received  at  Bordeaux.  Work  therefore,  work  with- 
out respite;  judge  yourself  severely;  trust  less  to 
the  hand-clapping  of  your  provincials  than  to  your 
own  testimony  as  to  your  merits.  What  confi- 
dence can  you  have  in  the  acclamations  of  people 
who  remain  silent  at  times  when  you  yourself  feel 
that  you  are  doing  well,  for  I  doubt  not  that  that 
has  happened  to  you  sometimes,  has  it  not?  Per- 
fect yourself  first  of  all  in  the  quiet  scene.'' 

Side  by  side  with  this  purely  technical  advice, 
Diderot  gives  his  young  friend  lessons  in  morals 
and  the  bearing  of  the  actress  in  society,  and  this 
second  part  of  the  correspondence  is  even  more 
interesting  and  significant  than  the  first. 


"My  age  and  experience,  the  friendship  be- 
tween your  father  and  myself,  and  the  interest  I 
have  always  taken  in  you,  justify  me  in  hoping 
that  such  advice  as  I  may  give  you  concerning 
your  conduct  and  your  character  will  not  be 
taken  amiss." 

And  he  immediately  avails  himself  of  that 
hope  to  tell  her  some  harsh  truths : 

"We  are  tempestuous,  very  tempestuous,  the 
worst  possible  fault  in  a  woman,  whose  first  and 
most  essential  garment  should,  it  seems  to  me, 
be  gentleness.  Vain,  too,  we  are,  and  vanity  is 
seldom  unaccompanied  by  folly  of  some  sort. 

22 


33^     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 

"  Only  persons  of  small  stahire  consta7itly  walk 
on  tiptoe, 

"False?  No,  not  precisely  that;  but  perhaps 
we  do  not  show  sufficient  respect  for  truth  in  what 
we  say.  That  is  another  petty  characteristic. 
None  but  the  fool  and  the  villain  may  indulge  in 
falsehood;  the  former  to  replace  the  wit  he  lacks, 
the  latter  to  mask  his  designs.  In  fact,  we  have 
all  the  foibles  of  the  profession ;  we  are  extrava- 
gant, careless,  and  our  morals  are  somewhat  loose. 
We  must  look  to  this. 

"The  philosopher,  who  does  not  believe  in 
religion,  cannot  pay  too  much  heed  to  his  morals; 
the  actress,  who  has  against  her  the  preconceived 
opinion  of  the  morality  of  her  profession,  cannot 
watch  herself  too  closely  or  show  too  great  eleva- 
tion of  character. " 

Not  that  Diderot  demands  from  an  actress  a 
degree  of  virtue  which  is  almost  incompatible 
with  her  profession,  and  which  women  in  society 
rarely  retain  amid  a  life  of  luxury,  far  removed 
from  the  temptations  of  every  sort  with  which  the 
actress  is  surrounded;  but  Mademoiselle  Jodin 
must  remember  that  a  woman  does  not  earn  the 
right  to  throw  off  the  fetters  imposed  upon  her 
sex  by  custom  and  public  opinion,  save  by  vir- 
tue of  her  talent,  her  courage,  and  her  intellect. 
Above  all  things,  he  urges  her  to  respect  the  pro- 
prieties, and  to  display  judgment  in  her  tastes. 

This  is  morality  with  flowing  sleeves,  as  it  was 
worn  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and  quite  suffi- 
cient for  an  actress  of  that  epoch. 


Diderot'' s  Advice  to  an  Actress,     339 

The  philosopher  himself  admits  that  his  views 
are  not  over  austere,  and  adds  with  the  indulgent 
smile  of  2i  garde  de  Paris  assigned  to  superintend 
the  morals  of  ballet-dancers : 

"  I  am  not  hard  to  please.  I  shall  be  content 
if  you  do  nothing  likely  to  impair  your  real  wel- 
fare. The  caprice  of  the  moment  has  its  charms. 
Who  does  not  know  it  ?  But  it  has  bitter  conse- 
quences which  one  may  avoid  by  little  sacrifices 
when  one  is  not  mad.  Be  virtuous  if  you  can ;  if 
you  cannot,  at  least  be  brave  enough  to  bear  the 
punishment  of  vice." 

At  other  times  the  master  is  more  severe,  more 
exacting;  he  believes  that  an  actress  should  main- 
tain a  virtuous,  respectable  bearing  and  talk  like 
a  girl  of  education,  for  there  is  no  other  way  for 
her  to  keep  at  a  distance  rakes  and  libertines  and 
all  the  insulting  familiarities  that  the  profession 
attracts.  She  must  earn  the  reputation  of  an 
honest,  virtuous  creature  and  be  most  scrupulous 
in  her  choice  of  the  persons  whom  she  receives  at 
all  frequently.  Above  all  things,  she  must  not 
imagine  that  her  conduct  in  society  has  no  bearing 
upon  her  success  on  the  stage ;  we  are  reluctant  to 
applaud  those  whom  we  hate  or  despise.  Lastly, 
she  must  be  economical.  That  is  the  best  of  all 
safeguards  of  her  independence  and  her  virtue. 

Farther  on,  he  recurs  to  the  subject  of  the  in- 
fluence of  the  artist's  mode  of  life  upon  her  suc- 
cess before  the  public.  In  his  opinion  the  vir^ 
tuous  actress  must  feel  more  keenly  and  express 
her  feelings  more  truly  than  the  other.     And  just 


340     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

as  there  is  an  infinite  difference  between  the  elo- 
quence of  an  honest  man  and  the  verbosity  of  a 
mere  rhetorician  who  does  not  believe  a  word  of 
what  he  says;  so  the  acting  of  an  honest  woman 
will  surpass  that  of  a  vile,  degraded  creature  who 
stands  before  the  footlights  and  reels  off  long 
tirades  about  virtue.  The  public  is  not  deceived. 
A  virtuous  part,  played  by  an  actress  who  is  not 
virtuous,  is  almost  as  offensive  as  the  part  of  a 
girl  of  fifteen  played  by  a  woman  of  fifty. 

The  philosopher  does  not  blink  the  fact,  how- 
ever, that  the  surroundings  amid  which  his  pro- 
tegee is  living  are  not  salutary  for  young  women. 
She  must  not  hope  to  find  true  friends  among  the 
men  of  her  profession;  as  to  the  women,  she 
should  treat  them  courteously  but  form  no  intima- 
cies with  any  of  them.  The  society  of  the  wings 
is  so  complicated,  so  artificial!  Compelled  to 
simulate  innumerable  varying  sentiments  on  the 
stage,  they  are  all  the  more  likely  to  reach  a  point 
at  which  they  lose  all  sentiment,  and  life  becomes 
to  them  simply  a  game  which  they  adapt  as  well 
as  they  can  to  the  different  circumstances  in  which 
they  find  themselves. 

"Indeed,  when  we  reflect  upon  the  reasons 
which  may  have  led  a  man  to  become  an  actor,  a 
woman  to  become  an  actress,  upon  the  place  where 
fate  laid  hold  of  them,  upon  the  strange  circum- 
stances which  forced  them  on  the  stage,  we  cease 
to  wonder  that  talent,  morality,  and  probity  are 
equally  rare  among  actors." 

Despite  the  pupil's  flighty  character,  we  may 


Diderot'' s  Advice  to  a7i  Actress.     341 

believe  that  the  master's  lessons  benefited  her 
somewhat,  judging  from  the  dithyrambic  tone  of 
letter  VII.,  which  begins  like  this: 

"What!  mademoiselle,  can  it  be  that  every- 
thing is  as  it  should  be,  and  that,  despite  the 
natural  giddiness  of  the  profession,  of  the  pas- 
sions, and  of  youth,  you  have  really  had  one  sen- 
sible thought,  and  the  intoxication  of  the  present 
has  not  prevented  you  from  looking  into  the 
future  ?  Can  it  be  that  you  are  ill  ?  Have  you 
lost  the  enthusiasm  of  your  talents  ?  Can  you  no 
longer  promise  yourself  the  same  advantages  ?  I 
have  little  faith  in  conversions,  and  prudence  has 
always  seemed  to  me  the  one  good  quality  that 
is  least  compatible  with  your  character.  I  am 
utterly  unable  to  understand." 

What  had  happened,  in  Heaven's  name?  A 
miraculous  thing.  The  actress  had  saved  money 
—  yes,  you  have  read  the  words  aright,  saved 
money  —  and  requested  Diderot  to  invest  it  for 
her.  It  is  so  rare,  so  novel  a  circumstance  that 
the  philosopher  refuses  to  believe  it.  If  he  does 
not  receive  the  money  in  a  month,  he  will  not 
expect  it  at  all.  And  lo !  to  set  his  mind  at  rest, 
there  arrives  from  Warsaw  a  draft  for  twelve 
thousand  francs  on  Messieurs  Tourton  and  Baure. 
Evidently  Mademoiselle  Jodin  is  more  prudent 
than  he  thought.  He  knew  that  her  heart  was  all 
right;  but  as  for  her  head,  he  believed  that  no 
woman  on  earth  had  ever  carried  on  her  shoulders 
a  wickeder  and  more  unreasoning  one.  She  has 
disappointed  him  very  agreeably. 


342     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

In  letter  XL  everything  has  gone  wrong  again; 
the  master  appears,  with  flashing  eyes  and  wig 
awry,  between  the  angry,  reproachful  lines. 

"You  will  never  persuade  me,  mademoiselle, 
that  you  did  not  draw  upon  yourself  the  unpleas- 
ant experience  you  have  had." 

What  unpleasant  experience  1  He  does  not  go 
into  details.  We  simply  infer  that  in  the  course 
of  some  scandalous  episode  the  actress  had  pub- 
licly laid  claim  to  Diderot's  friendship,  at  the 
risk  of  compromising  his  good  name. 

This  same  letter  contains  some  private  advice 
which  admits  us  to  the  secret  of  Mademoiselle 
Jodin's  liaison  with  the  Count  of  Schullembourg, 
a  friend  with  whom  she  had  become  acquainted 
in  Warsaw.  There  is  trouble  in  the  household, 
it  seems,  and  the  excellent  Diderot,  greatly  flat- 
tered by  having  received  the  count's  portrait, 
feels  called  upon  to  intervene  in  these  terms: 

"Be  prudent,  be  virtuous,  be  gentle,"  he  says 
to  his  protegee.  "  If  you  have  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  captivate  a  man  of  worth,  try  to  appreciate 
all  his  good  qualities ;  remember  that  sweetness, 
patience,  and  delicacy  of  feeling  are  the  proper 
attributes  of  woman,  and  that  tears  are  her  real 
weapons.  It  is  unworthy  a  brave  man  to  strike  a 
woman ;  it  is  more  unworthy  to  deserve  the  blow. 
If  you  do  not  mend  your  ways,  if  your  life  con- 
tinues to  be  marred  by  mad  freaks,  I  shall  lose  all 
the  interest  I  have  taken  in  you ;  present  my  re- 
spects to  Monsieur  le  Comte,  and  make  him 
happy,  since  he  has  undertaken  to  make  you  so." 


Diderot's  Advice  to  an  Actress,     343 

Mingled  with  these  quarrels  of  an  actress's 
household,  the  philosopher's  stern  features,  his 
sermons  upon  love  and  virtue,  assume  a  mildly 
comical  aspect.  The  poor  man  has  a  hard  task 
between  those  two  passionate  and  stormy  natures. 
Sometimes  he  urges  them  to  love  each  other 
peacefully,  to  abstain  from  foolish  outbreaks  on 
both  sides,  if  they  do  not  wish  to  be  chastised  for 
them  by  each  other. 

At  other  times,  thoroughly  discouraged,  he 
admits  that  he  is  no  longer  certain  that  they 
were  made  to  live  together.  The  actress  has  her 
failings,  which  the  count  is  never  inclined  to  over- 
look; the  count  has  his,  to  which  she  never  shows 
the  slightest  indulgence.  He  seems  to  be  intent 
exclusively  upon  destroying  the  effect  of  his  gen- 
erosity and  affection.  She,  for  her  part,  is  always 
ready  to  work  herself  up  to  some  violent  pro- 
ceeding. The  best  course  seems  to  be  to  abandon 
them  to  their  caprices. 

Beneath  the  apparent  impartiality  of  this 
advice,  one  easily  detects  the  respect,  the  defer- 
ence, of  the  plebeian  Diderot  for  the  title  and 
escutcheon  of  the  Count  of  Schullembourg.  In 
every  paragraph  we  find  "  Respects  to  Monsieur  le 
Comte. "  The  correspondence  would  unquestion- 
ably have  held  much  less  interest  for  him,  had  he 
not  felt  behind  the  actress  the  great  nobleman, 
whose  attentions  flatter  and  enliven  him. 

And  yet  in  the  later  letters,  when  Monsieur  le 
Comte  is  no  longer  mentioned,  having  evidently 
foundered,  disappeared  in  some  domestic  tempest, 


344    Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 

the  philosopher  bravely  continues  to  perform  his 
functions  as  guide  and  counsellor;  he  intervenes 
in  family  disputes,  invests  the  actress's  money, 
exerts  himself  to  arouse  her  intelligence  and  to 
instill  in  her  a  taste  for  well-doing. 

**If  you  are  wise,"  he  says  to  her  in  one  of  his 
last  letters,  "you  will  leave  as  few  loose  ends  as 
possible  for  fate  to  lay  hold  of;  you  will  bethink 
yourself  betimes  of  living  as  you  will  wish  that 
you  had  always  lived.  Of  what  use  are  all  the 
harsh  lessons  you  have  received  if  you  do  not 
profit  by  them  ?  You  have  so  little  self-control ! 
Among  the  marionettes  of  Providence,  you  are 
one  of  those  whose  wire  it  shakes  in  such  strange 
fashion  that  I  shall  never  believe  you  to  be  where 
you  are  not ;  and  you  are  not  at  Paris,  nor  are  you 
likely  to  be  at  once." 

Shortly  after,  the  correspondence  ended  ab- 
ruptly, broken  off  by  the  imprisonment  of  Made- 
moiselle Jodin.  The  Genevese,  a  converted  Prot- 
estant, and  as  such  in  receipt  of  a  pension, 
ventured  to  speak  slightingly  of  the  passage  of 
a  religious  procession;  she  was  arrested  and 
secluded. 

Diderot  was  alarmed  and  did  not  acknowledge 
her. 


Fanny  Kemble,  345 


IX. 

FANNY  KEMBLE,  AFTER  HER   MEMOIRS. 

Fanny  Kemble,  born  at  London  in  18 10,  was 
what  Parisians  call  an  enfant  de  la  balle}  Her 
father,  Charles  Kemble,  an  actor  of  talent,  was 
manager  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre.  Her  mother, 
who  was  of  French  descent,  acted  for  many  years 
and  also  gave  lessons  in  declamation.  Finally, 
she  was  a  niece  of  Mrs.  Siddons  and  John  Kem- 
ble, two  shining  lights  of  the  English  stage. 

Under  such  circumstances  it  would  have  been 
difficult  for  her  to  avoid  being  an  actress  too. 
And  yet  the  profession  was  not  agreeable  to  her, 
but  caused  her  an  instinctive  feeling  of  alarm  and 
repugnance. 

Being  very  well  brought  up  and  well  educated, 
passionately  fond  of  Manfred  and  Childe  Harold, 
she  would  have  preferred  to  write,  to  create  in- 
stead of  interpreting,  and  her  first  drama  was 
already  under  way,  a  magnificent  "five  acts"  in 
verse,  when  Charles  Kemble  decided  that  his 
daughter  should  make  her  debut  as  an  actress. 

The  poor  manager,  whose  prospects  at  Covent 
Garden  were  not  of  the  brightest,  hoped  that 
Fanny's  youth,  her  nervous  and  forceful  charm, 

1  That  is  to  say,  an  actor's  child,  who  follows  its  father's  pro- 
fession j  akin  to  the  English  "chip  of  the  old  block." 


346     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 

would  swell  the  receipts;  but,  knowing  his 
daughter's  ideas,  and  that  reserved  nature,  averse 
to  all  display,  he  felt  his  way,  tried  to  find  an 
opening,  began  to  talk  timidly  about  there  being 
"a  fine  fortune  to  be  made  by  any  young  woman 
of  even  decent  talent  on  the  stage  now;"  then 
abruptly  revealed  his  distress,  saying: 

"You  are  the  only  one  who  can  save  us, 
Fanny!" 

She  hesitated  no  longer,  but  imposed  silence 
on  her  repugnance  and  her  scruples,  and  con- 
sented to  play  Juliet,  which  she  first  recited  to 
her  parents.  What  refined  and  charming  pages 
the  actress  writes  under  the  inspiration  of  those 
memories ! 

"They  neither  of  them  said  anything  beyond 
'  Very  well,  very  nice,  my  dear,'  with  many  kisses 
and  caresses,  from  which  I  escaped  to  sit  down  on 
the  stairs  half-way  between  the  drawing-room  and 
my  bedroom,  and  get  rid  of  the  repressed  nervous 
fear  I  had  struggled  with  while  reciting,  in  floods 
of  tears.  A  few  days  after  this  my  father  told  me 
he  wished  to  take  me  to  the  theatre  with  him  to 
try  whether  my  voice  was  of  sufficient  strength  to 
fill  the  building;  so  thither  I  went.  That 
strange-looking  place,  the  stage,  with  its  racks  of 
pasteboard  and  canvas,  —  streets,  forests,  banquet- 
ing-halls,  and  dungeons,  — drawn  apart  on  either 
side,  was  empty  and  silent ;  not  a  soul  was  stirring 
in  the  indistinct  recesses  of  its  mysterious  depths, 
which  seemed  to  stretch  indefinitely  behind  me. 
In  front,  the  great  amphitheatre,  equally  empty 


Fanny  Kemble,  347 

and  silent,  wrapped  in  its  gray  holland  covers, 
would  have  been  absolutely  dark  but  for  a  long, 
sharp,  thin  shaft  of  light  that  darted  here  and 
there  from  some  height  and  distance  far  above 
me,  and  alighted,  in  a  sudden,  vivid  spot  of 
brightness,  on  the  stage.  Set  down  in  the 
midst  of  twilight  space  as  it  were,  with  only 
my  father's  voice  coming  to  me  from  where  he 
stood  hardly  distinguishable  in  the  gloom,  in 
those  poetical  utterances  of  pathetic  passion,  I 
was  seized  with  the  spirit  of  the  thing;  m}'- 
voice  resounded  through  the  great  vault  above 
and  before  me,  and,  completely  carried  away 
by  the  inspiration  of  the  wonderful  play,  I  acted 
Juliet  as  I  do  not  believe  I  ever  acted  it  again, 
for  I  had  no  visible  Romeo  and  no  audience 
to  thwart  my  imagination;  at  least,  I  had  no 
consciousness  of  any,  though  in  truth  I  had  one. 
In  the  back  of  one  of  the  private  boxes,  com- 
manding the  stage  but  perfectly  invisible  to  me, 
sat   an  old   and   warmly  attached   friend  of   my 

father's.   Major  D ,  a  man  of  the  world  —  of 

London  society,  ...  a  first-rate  critic  in  all 
things  connected  with  art  and  literature  .  .  .  ; 
the  best  judge,  in  many  respects,  that  my  father 
could  have  selected,  of  my  capacity  for  my  pro- 
fession and  my  chance  of  success  in  it.  Not  till 
after  the  event  had  justified  my  kind  old  friend's 
prophecy  did  I  know  that  he  had  witnessed  that 
morning's  performance,  and  joining  my  father  at 
the  end  of  it  had  said :  *  Bring  her  out  at  once ; 
it  will  be  a  great  success.*     And  so,  three  weeks 


34^     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights. 

from  that  time  I  was  brought  out,  and  it  was  a 
*  great  success. '  "  ^ 

Three  weeks  of  study  in  all  had  sufficed  to  bring 
about  that  happy  result;  but  our  young  actors 
must  not  be  led  astray,  but  must  be  careful  not 
to  take  that  estimate  of  three  weeks  literally,  for 
behind  those  three  weeks,  to  say  nothing  of  in- 
stinctive, hereditary  aptitudes,  there  were  long 
years  of  reflection  and  observation,  a  thorough 
professional  training  unconsciously  acquired  by 
contact  with  actors  and  actresses,  by  being  present 
day  after  day  at  their  conversations,  their  labors, 
their  discussions.  "To  act  by  inspiration"  is  a 
phrase  which  does  not  mean  very  much. 

If  Fanny  Kemble  had  had  only  those  three 
weeks  of  study  and  her  inspiration,  not  only  would 
she  have  been  unable  to  walk  two  steps  on  the 
stage,  but  Juliet  would  have  been  much  more 
engrossed  by  her  hands  and  arms  than  by  Romeo. 

With  stirring  impressiveness  and  close  attention 
to  details,  the  actress  describes  her  first  appear- 
ance; despite  the  emotion  which  dimmed  her 
eyes  and  grasped  her  throat  as  in  a  vice,  she  saw 
everything,  observed  everything,  remembers 
everything,  even  to  the  walk  she  took  that  morn- 
ing in  St.  James  Park.  She  carried  with  her 
Blunt' s  "Scripture  Characters"  and  selected  the 
chapters  relating  to  Jacob  and  Saint  Paul,  seeking 
in  those  edifying  pages  a  sedative  for  the  excite- 
ment of  her  brain  and  her  nerves. 

1  Records  of  a  Girlhood,  by  Frances  Anne  Kemble,  p.  i88, 
Amer  ed. 


Fanny  Kemble,  349 

A  strange  preparation  for  the  balcony  scene. 
It  is  equal  to  Stendhal's  condemning  himself  to 
absorb  a  certain  number  of  articles  of  the  Code, 
before  writing  a  page  of  U Amour. 

At  last  the  hoar  for  the  performance  arrived. 
Mrs.  Kemble,  the  debutante's  mother,  who  had 
retired  from  the  stage  twenty  years  before, 
returned  to  it  that  evening  in  order  to  be  nearer 
her  daughter.  The  two  women  arrived  at  the 
theatre  together;  each  went  to  her  own  dressing- 
room  ;  and  until  the  curtain  rose  Fanny  saw  no 
more  of  her  mother,  who  was  as  nervous  and 
troubled  as  she,  and  afraid  of  showing  her 
emotion. 

"  My  dear  Aunt  Dall,  my  maid,  and  the  theatre 
dresser  performed  my  toilet  for  me,  and  at  length 
I  was  placed  in  a  chair,  with  my  satin  train  laid 
carefully  over  the  back  of  it;  and  there  I  sat, 
ready  for  execution,  with  the  palms  of  my  hands 
pressed  convulsively  together,  and  the  tears  I 
in  vain  endeavored  to  repress  welling  up  into  my 
eyes  and  brimming  slowly  over,  down  my  rouged 
cheeks,  upon  which  my  aunt,  with  a  smile  full  of 
pity,  renewed  the  color  as  often  as  these  heavy 
drops  made  unsightly  streaks  in  it.  Once  and 
again  my  father  came  to  the  door,  and  I  heard  his 
anxious  *  How  is  she?  '  to  which  my  aunt  an- 
swered, sending  him  away  with  words  of  comfort- 
ing cheer.  At  last,  *  Miss  Kemble  called  for  the 
stage,  ma'am!'  accompanied  with  a  brisk  tap  at 
the  door,  started  me  upright  on  my  feet,  and  I 
was  led  round  to  the  side  scene  opposite  to  the 


350     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

one  from  which  I  saw  my  mother  advance  on  the 
stage;  and  while  the  uproar  of  her  reception  filled 
me  with  terror,  dear  old  Mrs.  Davenport,  my 
nurse,  and  dear  Mr.  Keely,  her  Peter,  and  half 
the  dramatis  personce  of  the  play  (but  not  my 
father,  who  had  retreated,  quite  unable  to  endure 
the  scene)  stood  round  me  as  I  lay,  all  but 
insensible,  in  my  aunt's  arms.  '  Courage,  courage, 
dear  child!  poor  thing,  poor  thing!'  reiterated 
Mrs.  Davenport.  '  Never  mind  'em.  Miss  Kem- 
ble, '  urged  Keely,  in  that  irresistibly  comical, 
nervous,  lachrymose  voice  of  his,  which  I  have 
never  since  heard  without  a  thrill  of  anything 
but  comical  association;  '  never  mind  'em!  don't 
think  of  'em,  any  more  than  if  they  were  so  many 
rows  of  cabbages  ! '  '  Nurse ! '  called  my  mother; 
and  on  waddled  Mrs.  Davenport,  and,  turning 
back,  called  in  her  turn  :  '  Juliet ! '  My  aunt  gave 
me  an  impulse  forward,  and  I  ran  straight  across 
the  stage,  stunned  with  the  tremendous  shout  that 
greeted  me,  my  eyes  covered  with  mist,  and  the 
green  baize  flooring  of  the  stage  feeling  as  if  it 
rose  up  against  my  feet;  but  I  got  hold  of  my 
mother,  and  stood  like  a  terrified  creature  at  bay, 
confronting  the  huge  theatre  full  of  gazing  human 
beings.  I  do  not  think  a  word  I  uttered  during 
this  scene  could  have  been  audible;  in  the  next, 
the  ball-room,  I  began  to  forget  myself;  in  the 
following  one,  the  balcony  scene,  I  had  done  so, 
and,  for  aught  I  knew,  I  was  Juliet ;  the  passion  I 
was  uttering  sending  hot  waves  of  blushes  all 
over  my  neck  and    shoulders,   while   the   poetry 


Fanny  Kemble.  351 

sounded  like  music  to  me  as  I  spoke  it,  with  no 
consciousness  of  anything  before  me,  utterly 
transported  into  the  imaginary  existence  of  the 
play.  After  this,  I  did  not  return  into  myself 
till  all  was  over,  and  amid  a  tumultuous  storm  of 
applause,  congratulation,  tears,  embraces,  and  a 
general  joyous  explosion  of  unutterable  relief  at 
the  fortunate  termination  of  my  attempt,  we  went 
home."i 

Thus  her  destiny  was  decided,  and  she  resigned 
herself  to  follow  a  profession  which  repelled  her, 
natural  and  sincere  creature  that  she  was,  by  its 
artificiality  and  falsehood,  and  which  was  espe- 
cially offensive  to  her  womanly  delicacy  and 
reserve. 

"  I  assure  you  "  —  she  wrote  to  a  friend  on  the 
day  following  her  debut  —  "that  I  have  not  em- 
braced this  course  without  due  dread  of  its  dan- 
gers, and  a  firm  determination  to  watch,  as  far  as 
in  me  lies,  over  its  effect  upon  my  mind." 

And  those  dangers  are  not  the  ones  you  may 
imagine.  At  the  time  when  Fanny  Kemble 
wrote  that  letter,  she  did  not  even  suspect  their 
existence.  No;  but  in  her  childhood  she  had 
been  greatly  impressed  by  her  Aunt  Siddons's 
incurable  melancholy,  her  indifference  to  every- 
thing, and  she  sought  in  advance  to  be  on  her 
guard  against  that  melancholy,  that  weariness, 
that  distaste  for  life  which  marks  the  decline  of 
lives  that  have  been  too  resplendent,  the  dull 
apathy  so  often  observed  in  great  actors  on  the 

1  Records  of  a  Girlhood,  pp.  219,  220. 


352     Between  the  Flies  and  the  Footlights, 

retired  list,  as  in  fallen  monarchs,  old  Don  Juans 
discarded  and  foundered. 

I  cannot,  to  my  great  regret,  follow  Fanny 
Kemble  through  all  the  incidents  of  her  twofold 
career  as  actress  and  dramatic  author,  of  which 
she  describes  the  ups  and  downs,  the  triumphs 
and  the  disappointments,  with  most  attractive 
frankness  and  sincerity.  Always  brave-hearted, 
devoted  to  her  parents,  when  her  father  asked  her 
one  day  if  she  would  consent  to  expatriate  herself, 
to  take  part  in  an  American  tour,  to  last  two  or 
three  years,  which  would  probably  be  very  lucra- 
tive and  would  wipe  out  at  last  the  terrible  past 
of  Covent  Garden,  "Let  us  go,"  she  replied;  but 
how  her  heart  bled  to  leave  that  English  public 
always  so  kind,  so  paternal,  in  its  regard  for  her ! 

"As  I  thought"  —  she  is  writing  of  her  last 
performance  in  the  old  Covent  Garden  —  "as  I 
thought  of  the  strangers  for  whom  I  am  now  to 
work  in  that  distantj  strange  country  to  which  we 
are  going,  the  tears  rushed  into  my  eyes,  and  I 
hardly  knew  what  I  was  doing.  I  scarcely  think 
I  even  made  the  conventional  courtesy  of  leave- 
taking  to  them,  but  I  snatched  my  little  nosegay 
of  flowers  from  my  sash,  and  threw  it  into  the  pit 
with  handfuls  of  kisses,  as  a  farewell  token  of  my 
affection  and  gratitude."^ 

It  was  a  prosperous  tour,  it  seems,  but  very 
unpleasant,  anti-artistic,  above  all.  The  actress 
describes  it  in  detail  with  good-humored  irony, 
leads  us  from  theatre  to  theatre,  from  one  end  to 

1  Records  of  a  Girlhood,  p,  52  T. 


Fanny  Kemble.  353 

the  other  of  the  United  States,  through  that  igno- 
rant and  indolent  Bohemia,  which  is  always  the 
same  in  every  quarter  of  the  globe.  Then  sud- 
denly, in  the  midst  of  her  nomadic,  triumphant 
life,  occurs  this  little  sentence,  which  brings  the 
journey  and  its  memories  to  a  close : 

"  I  was  married  in  Philadelphia,  on  the  7th  of 
June,  1834,  to  Mr.  Pierce  Butler,  of  that  city." 

And  with  that  the  book  ends,  an  exquisite  book, 
written  by  a  real  poet,  in  places  a  little  toe 
romantic  and  exhortatory  for  our  taste ;  but  that 
is  a  matter  of  epoch  and  education. 

A  single  point  offends  us,  and  that  is  the  con- 
ceited tone,  intensely  English,  in  which  the 
actress  on  several  occasions  compares  the  respec- 
tability of  the  actors  of  her  country  "to  the  shame- 
ful laxity  of  morals  which  characterizes  foreigr 
actors."  We  shall  astonish  the  English  beyonci 
measure  by  informing  them  that  there  are  in  Pari.' 
Fanny  Kembles  of  great  talent  who,  although  the\ 
do  not  attend  rehearsals  with  Bibles  in  thei' 
pockets,  are  none  the  less  very  estimable  women, 
devoted  and  courageous  mothers,  worthy  of  ali 
respect.  Nor  do  we  lack  Bohemians  and  eccen 
trie  individuals,  it  is  true;  but,  being  less  ambi 
tious  than  our  neighbors,  we  do  not  claim  tc 
have  a  monopoly  of  them. 


23 


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